


Thicker than Water

by StarkatHeart



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Superfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkatHeart/pseuds/StarkatHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them would admit it, but blood does count for something.</p>
<p>When Peter Parker discovers his biological father is actually none other than Tony Stark, it's not exactly news that's well received. By either party. But they're Avengers. They're teammates. They'll just have to work through it. ...Or maybe just ignore it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker than Water

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by Amajid1001 on Tumblr. "I saw a fic where Tony was with Steve and didn’t know Peter was his son, until he came to Stark Tower yelling ‘Tony Stark is my dad!'. Could you write a similar story?" - Well, it's not quite the same, and it probably took me a year to finally get around to answering this prompt, but I hope everyone likes it all the same!

_December, 2017_

 

Everything was too clean. Decoration consisted of clinical posters on the walls about how to properly wash your hands, or illustrating the human digestive system. The whole place reeked of antiseptic, and Peter could hardly stand the smell. He swung his legs back and forth as he sat on the examination table, hyper aware of every little crackle noise as the thin paper sheeting beneath him crinkled.

_Uncomfortable_ did not begin to describe Peter’s feelings about being in a doctor’s office. He feared the day someone would take note of something strange about a blood sample, or in his heart rate, or with his abnormal flexibility. He wondered when the doctor would ask him about the numerous white scars that littered his body, and tried to think up excuses for them that wouldn’t sound like he was being or had been abused at home. He might be able to fake his lack of capability in gym class, but there was no way to hide his biology. So Peter fidgeted as he waited for the door to open once more. The handle on the door depressed seemingly of its own accord, and a moment later the doctor walked back in the exam room, flipping through pages on his clipboard.

“Good news, Mr. Parker, you’re one of the healthiest patients I’ve ever seen,” the doctor said cheerfully. “I’m very impressed. I don’t even think Captain America would have anything on you.” Peter held his breath. He felt a ‘but’ coming, and _that_ couldn’t be good. “But—when your Aunt signed you both up for this practice, she neglected to fill out the family history side to your form, and I noticed that you also left it blank this afternoon.” Peter barely caught himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief.

“Oh,” he said, “my last doctor had all those records. I thought he transferred them here with mine—I don’t know anything about my parents’ medical history.” The doctor with the clipboard—Doctor Johnson? Something like that, Peter thought—smiled kindly.

“That’s all right then—would you mind contacting your previous physician and getting those records to me? It will help us determine if there’s anything we need to be on the lookout for,” the doctor said. “Other than that, you’re all done, Mr. Parker. Just check in with Betty on the way out.” Peter gratefully hopped off the exam table. The doctor held open the door for him and he darted out, feeling an enormous weight lift off of his shoulders. He could _breathe_ again. He signed a form for Betty on the way out and then left the building, walking right out onto the street in Brooklyn. Peter checked his phone—no calls or texts from Gwen. _I’ll just take care of this now_ , Peter thought. Their date wasn’t until seven, anyway, and getting a couple of files would be a _snap_ compared to that check-up.

Of course, Peter realized, two hours later, he probably shouldn’t have underestimated the difficulty of finding two old files in a storage room being prepared for packing since old Doc Thomas was retiring. Peter fidgeted where he sat, in a chair in the empty waiting room of Doc Thomas’ old office. Peter checked his phone. _6:12_ . It had been an hour and a half since Peter had seen the old man, who’d disappeared into the back. Peter wondered if he should check and make sure the guy was still alive, when finally the man emerged, glasses slightly askew and covered in dust, two thick manila folders in hand.

“Found them!” Doc Thomas said, coughing slightly. Peter stood and walked to him, taking the files from the man’s delicate, wrinkly hands.

“Thanks,” Peter said.

“Not a problem, not a problem at all, Mr. Parker,” Doc Thomas said, though it had obviously been quite some trouble. He brushed some dust off of his shoulders, and it puffed out towards Peter in a cloud. Peter sneezed. “Call me if you have any questions. I remember all my patients in quite some detail.”

“Sure thing, Doc. Thanks. And congrats on your retirement!” Peter said. Doc Thomas just nodded and smiled fondly, and Peter left the second doctor’s office in a rush yet again—at least he still had time to shower and change before his date, but Doctor Johnson’s office would be closed by now. He’d have to take the files over in the morning.

Peter got back to Brooklyn pretty quickly, glad that for once he didn’t need to dodge Aunt May as he came in. She still seemed suspicious—Peter really needed to start thinking of better excuses for why he was gone all the time.

“What exactly took you so long, Peter Parker?” Aunt May demanded. She stood with her hands on her hips, momentarily the boiling pot of pasta on the stove. The small television in the room was turned on, to some news story about the Avengers. For the past four years, it often was.

_“And where, exactly were the Avengers one month ago during the vicious attack on the city by the lizard creature, Doctor Curt Connors?”_ asked a reporter on the screen.

_“The attack was swift and without any warning. We had no intelligence on Oscorp, no inkling of such an attack, and as a result we were absent from the scene. We were out of the state, and by the time word had reached us the incident had already been taken care of by the vigilante, Spider-Man,”_ Captain America spoke onscreen, wearing his costume complete with cowl. They said he was the same guy from the forties, but he never spoke without his mask. It could be anybody under there. “ _Having been assured the situation was under control we didn’t find it necessary to return to New York—”_

 Peter held up the folders.

“Had to get my parents’ files from Doc Thomas,” Peter said. Aunt May seemed surprised—for once, an excuse that made sense! She returned to stirring the pot of pasta.

“Oh, Doc Thomas—he’s blind as a bat, even with his glasses. How long did it take him to find that?”

“An…hour and a half,” Peter said. “I’m just gonna go shower, Aunt May, I’ve got a date with Gwen in—uh, twenty minutes.”

“Better hurry!” Aunt May called after him as he bounded up the stairs. Yeah, as if he didn’t know. He might be Spider-Man, and Gwen might give him allowances because of that, but it was still rude to be late to a date. He wrenched open the door to his room and threw the files on his bed—well, he nearly did anyway. They slipped off shortly after impact, the papers flying out and mixing together.

“ _Man_ ,” Peter groaned. He really couldn’t catch a break. He squatted down and started putting them back together again as quickly as he could.

 

_—spiral fracture of the right tibia—_

_No history of heart disease—_

_—influenza—_

_—prescribed fluticasone propionate—_

_Mild case of mononucleosis contracted—_

_—rendering patient sterile—_

Tiny details of his parents’ lives flashed before him, but his eyes stuck on the very last. Gently, curiosity getting the better of him, Peter pulled out the offending page.

It was a page belonging to his father’s medical file. _Richard Parker_ it listed at the top. The date was 25 March, 1995, five years before Peter was born. _Testicular cancer_ , it said. A list of chemicals or radiations or treatments that Peter didn’t know or understand or particularly want to understand, but at the bottom, there was another date—patient expected to go into remission, but rendered sterile from treatment. 1996.

Peter frowned. It didn’t make any sense. It didn’t make any sense _at all_. If Richard Parker was sterile… no, the doctors must have been mistaken. Peter’s stomach did a flip. _They must have been mistaken._ Peter picked up his phone.

 

**6:52pm**

            **Can we reschedule?**

**GWEN**

**6:53pm**

**Spider stuff?**

**6:53pm**

**personal stuff**

**GWEN**

**6:54pm**

**Ok. Want to talk?**

**6:55pm**

**not yet**

He put his phone away and got up from the floor. He walked downstairs.

“Shouldn’t you be running for the subway station about now and apologizing profusely to Gwen?” Aunt May asked with a small smile on her face as he appeared in the kitchen. The television was still going. Unsurprisingly they were still running clips from the recent interview. This time, Thor took up the screen. Aunt May drained the pasta over the sink. Peter waited until she’d set the pot back down on the counter. She frowned at his silence. “Peter, what is it?” Peter held out the piece of paper.

“Did you know about this?” he asked, a lump rising in his throat. _They made a mistake, they made a mistake, they made a mistake_. Aunt May frowned and took the paper. Realization dawned on her face, and she slowly looked up to Peter with _that look_. Peter knew that look all too well. It was the same look she’d had when he’d found his father’s briefcase. It was her _you weren’t supposed to find this_ look. Peter felt sick.

“Is it—is it true? Was he—am I not—?” Peter choked out.

“Oh, Peter,” she said, looking devastated.

“Is Richard Parker not—was my Dad not—” Peter couldn’t say it. Peter couldn’t face it. His head spun, his stomach revolted.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Peter,” Aunt May said, a hand over her mouth. She held out the paper, expecting him to take it, but Peter wouldn’t touch it, like it was diseased.

“The _truth!_ ” Peter said. “Just tell me the truth, Aunt May, _please_.”

“He was still your father, Peter,” Aunt May said quietly, her voice trembling slightly.

“But _was he_?” Peter asked. “Did they—they made a mistake, right? He wasn’t sterile, they just—” But Aunt May didn’t have to say a thing. It was written all over her face. There was no mistake. Richard Parker was not his biological father. Peter didn’t remember sitting down, but suddenly he was on the floor, propped up against the doorframe, and Aunt May crouched in front of him, taking his hands in hers.

“Peter, are you going to be ok? Sweetheart, you’re scaring me,” Aunt May said. Peter took a deep breath.

“I’m—I’ll be fine Aunt May, I just—I just need a minute,” Peter managed to say. He sounded winded, like he’d run ten miles (well, for him now it would probably take about twenty, but that was neither here nor there). He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His whole world felt like it was shattering—again. It felt like his dad was dying all over again, being ripped away, forever out of reach. _Richard Parker was not my father._ “But—Aunt May if—if Dad wasn’t—if he wasn’t my father, who _was_?” Aunt May grimaced, like she’d been expecting and dreading this question.

“He wasn’t father material, Peter,” Aunt May said cautiously.

“But you know who he was?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Aunt May admitted reluctantly. “But, Peter—”

His world was shattering and rebuilding all around him—he’d lost Richard Parker all over again, he felt, but he’d also _gained_ something, and hope blossomed in his chest.

“Is he alive?” Peter asked.

“Yes, but Peter—” Aunt May began again.

“Why did you keep this from me?” Peter asked. He tried his best to keep from sounding accusatory. “I had a living parent all this time, and you never said anything.”

“Sweetheart,” Aunt May said, sounding like her heart was breaking, “he’s not the parent type.” The hope began to blow away as finally those words sunk in.

“He left my Mom, didn’t he? When he found out she was pregnant,” Peter asked.

“I don’t know,” Aunt May said honestly. “I don’t know what happened. But I do know that your mother was _adamant_ that you not know about this. She told myself and your Uncle Ben that you were _never_ to know.”

“Well, I _know_ now,” Peter said. “What difference will a name make? Aunt May, please.”

“You won’t believe me,” Aunt May said, sighing. She rose, making her way back to the pasta, calmly putting some onto a plate. Peter slowly got up as she got out an extra plate.

“What do you mean by that? Why wouldn’t I? Do I know who he is? Have I _met_ him?” Peter said. “Please, please, _please_ , Aunt May.” His aunt put the two plates on the table, then stared at the television screen for a moment. Now Tony Stark took the stage, all flash and dazzle. Peter idolized the man—tech genius, superhero, billionaire, player? In many ways, Peter wished he was just like him.

_“What was Iron Man doing? Look, Ella—can I call you Ella? You look lovely today, by the way, did you get a hair cut?—look, Ella, I’ll give you the scoop of the year—I  was on my honeymoon. The suit, unfortunately, did not join us, though I may have begged and begged, my fiancé didn’t seem to think it had a place in our bedroom—”_

Aunt May just sighed, and shook her head.

“I wish you’d just leave it, Peter.”

“You know that I can’t.”

“Sit down and eat your spaghetti,” Aunt May said. She kept watching the program.

_“You heard it here first, folks, the perpetual bachelor Tony Stark has finally settled down? But with who?”_ a reporter on screen asked rhetorically, and the footage cut back to the interview.

_“His name is Steve,”_ Tony Stark said. _“We’re deliriously happy, thanks. But he’s a private person, so I’d rather leave him out of this media circus, all right?”_

_“That’s right, Tony Stark, notorious playboy, is even_ more _adventurous in the bedroom than we thought—”_

“They’re being pretty rude,” Peter said, momentarily distracted. Aunt May shot him a look, and he sat down and picked up his fork. “They _are_.” He shoveled in a mouthful of spaghetti and swallowed. “So are you going to tell me now?”

“Well, he recently caused the press to have a field day by announcing he’d gotten married in secret to a man,” Aunt May said with an annoyed sigh. “Now eat your dinner.”

“You’re shi—kidding me,” Peter said, barely catching his language.

“I wish I were, Peter,” Aunt May said. She sat down to the table as well. The gears in Peter’s brain whirred on overdrive. This was too much for one day. He ate his spaghetti in a contemplative silence that Aunt May seemed perfectly fine with indulging just this once. He helped her clean up and then went straight to bed, but he didn’t sleep.

It would be a long while before he really got any sleep.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Peter Parker,” Coulson said, setting the file on Nick Fury’s desk. “I had Hawkeye trail him. He’s our guy, for sure. What would you like me to do with him?” Fury looked at him, and then his one eye squinted. He rooted through the file for a moment.

“That’s what I thought. Richard and Mary’s son,” Fury said. He frowned. “You know what always bothered me, Coulson?”

“No, sir,” Coulson replied.

“Richard Parker was sterile,” Fury said.

“A sterile man with a son. That is perplexing indeed, sir,” Coulson agreed.

“You know what bothered me more?” Fury asked.

“No, sir,” Coulson said.

“That the last place we sent Mary on a mission to before she quit was Stark Industries,” Fury said. He held up the picture of Peter Parker. “He look kind of familiar to you?”

“If you are implying a resemblance, I’d have to agree there’s a strong one,” Coulson replied. Fury grunted.

“That’s what I figured,” he said. There was a long silence.

“So what would you like me to do with him, sir?” Coulson asked.

“Recruit him. Send the Captain if he’ll go,” Fury said.

“Not Stark?”

“Hell no,” Fury said. “Bring Stark to my office, please. He’s caused enough of a shit storm for one day.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Does he know?” Gwen asked. She sat across from him at the little table in their favorite coffeehouse, her bright blue eyes full of concern. The cushy chair she sat in matched those eyes of hers, as well as her scarf. Her small, perfectly manicured hands wrapped around her favorite drink—hot chocolate, extra whipped cream with chocolate shavings on top. It was untouched. Peter had noticed that when she was in a particularly good mood, she’d ask for a bit of peppermint as well, but today was not one of those days. Peter felt guilty—that was probably _his_ fault.

“I don’t know,” Peter answered honestly. He took a sip of his espresso. It was so hot it nearly burned his tongue, but Peter relished the heat. New York in December was freezing cold. Peter and Gwen had taken extra care to pick a table on the second floor of the café to avoid the cold wind blowing in from the entrance as frozen New Yorkers shuffled in and out, their shiny black shoes squeaking on the floors wet with melted snow. The café itself was packed with everyone trying to escape from the weather. The intense noise and the action grated on Peter’s newly improved senses, but he did his best to tune it out.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Gwen asked, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Peter shrugged. “Well what if he doesn’t know? Are you going to tell him?”

“I don’t know, Gwen,” he sighed, putting down the espresso and mussing his hair with his hands.  “It’s like—I can’t win here. If he knows about it and I tell him, he’ll just—I don’t know, kick me out or call security or something. And if he _doesn’t_ know and I tell him, he’ll _totally_ call security because some crazy kid has just walked into his company claiming to be his kid and _isn’t that suspicious_? But if I don’t tell him…” Peter stopped, and sighed again.

“If you don’t tell him, then you’ll never know what could have happened,” Gwen finished for him. “But Peter—do you really think there’s no chance he’d take you seriously? If he didn’t know?”

“Would you? You’re a billionaire, genius, superhero and some punk kid just waltzes in claiming to be your son—I mean, what’s your first thought? Either ‘after the money’ or ‘just plain crazy’,” Peter said.

“But you could ask him for a DNA test,” Gwen said.

“Right, I’m sure that would go well—‘hey, Mr. Stark, I’m your long-lost son, oh by the way can I have some of your blood?’” Peter said, shaking his head. “I just don’t see this turning out well.”

“Well, then, Peter Parker, I guess you’re just going to live your life wondering because you’re too afraid to say four words to somebody,” Gwen said. She finally lifted her mug and took a drink of cocoa. Peter frowned but he had to admit she had a point. He _was_ afraid. Gwen set the mug back down and Peter grinned. A small bit of whipped cream was on her nose.

“Um, you’ve got a bit—” Peter said, reaching up to wipe off the offending cream with a finger, then licking it off. “Mmm. Needs more cocoa. Or maybe just more _Gwen_.” Gwen smiled and Peter leaned down and kissed her. He would never get over the sensation of kissing Gwen. Her lips might be familiar now, but they always sent a pleasant shock through his system.

Of course, it was at the moment when Peter was committing the sin of PDA in a coffeehouse that the man Peter would later come to know as Captain America strolled up to recruit him to the Avengers, though Peter didn’t know that just then. The man cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Peter Parker?” Surprised, Peter and Gwen broke apart.

“Um, that’s me,” Peter said. The man, a tall, frighteningly muscled blond man, nodded.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your date, but I have to ask if you’ll please take a walk with me,” the man said, not unkindly, but certainly with an air of authority. The man wore a heavy brown leather coat, plain trousers and boots of the same color, a red scarf, and—hilariously—bright blue earmuffs, though those he wore around his neck.

“Uh, a walk?” Peter asked. He glanced outside.

“A walk that will come to an end in a warm building where we can speak more freely,” the man clarified.

“For what reason?” Peter asked cautiously. The man smiled, a bit tightly.

“I’m afraid that’s sensitive information,” the man replied.

“And if I say ‘no’?”

“I’ll persuade you.”

Peter looked the man up and down. Yeah, _persuade_ him. He was big. Peter’d fought bigger. But, still, he wasn’t looking for a fight in the middle of a crowded coffeehouse without his suit on. He’d take the walk, sure, but he wasn’t going into any strange buildings with this guy. Not until he knew what he was after.

“Fine. Gwen are you fine to get home on your own?” Peter asked.

“Of course,” Gwen said. “Call me when you’re done.” She might have directed the comment to Peter, but she was looking pointedly at the man. Peter gulped down his espresso almost all at once—he was going to feel _that_ in a minute—and stood, following the strange man out the door.

“I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you, Peter,” the man said once they’d left the shop. “But there were too many people inside for me to be able to talk to you. My name is Steve, but you know me as Captain America.” Peter stopped walking. The man chuckled then gestured for him to keep going. It took Peter a second, but his legs began to obey again and he continued his walk with _Captain America holy crap_. “So, since I’ve been honest with you, can you be honest with me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Peter said evasively. Captain America smiled kindly.

“I think you do, Peter,” he said. Peter swallowed.

“I’m—uh—you’d know me as—well—uh— _you_ probably wouldn’t know me, I’m not that big a deal but—uh—Spider-Man,” Peter said. The Captain chuckled.

“All right, close enough. I think you underestimate yourself, Peter. SHIELD has kept one eye on you at all times, ever since you started taking down criminals on the streets and swinging through the skies,” he said.

“What? Why didn’t they tell the police?” Peter asked, baffled. He’d had an entire police department out on patrol, looking for him. But SHIELD knew all along?

“SHIELD has a different agenda than the police. You were never viewed as a threat,” he said.

“But that’s…changed? Am I going to disappear and never be heard from again?” Peter asked.

“Do you really think _Captain America_ is going to ‘disappear’ you?” Steve asked, one eyebrow raised. Peter smiled sheepishly.

“No, I guess not,” Peter said. “But why are we talking?” Peter wished it weren’t so cold outside. Their breath turned to fog in the air, and his nose was nearly numb.

“Because I’m trying to recruit you to the team, Peter,” Captain America said. Peter stopped walking again, though this time he wasn’t even aware that he had. Even in all his fanboy dreams, nothing like _this_ had ever happened. Meet Captain America? Sure. Meet Iron Man? Hell yes. But become part of the Avengers? Be Tony Stark’s biological son (though at the moment that was categorically not awesome)? Become a superhero?

When the fuck did this become _his_ _life_?

“You…you want _me_ …to…you want _me_ on the Avengers?” Peter asked, utterly stunned. “But I’m not…I’m not a hero. I’m just a vigilante. A super-powered vigilante, sure, but…”

“I think you’re much more than that, Peter,” the Captain said. “And I think you’ve already proven it. But if you’d like a chance to prove it yourself, why don’t you come along with me?”

“Where are we going?”

“The Triskelion. SHIELD headquarters,” the Captain said. Peter forced his feet forward.

“And…what’s there?” Peter asked.

“Paperwork, mostly,” the Captain said, sounding amused. “But also the rest of the team. And Fury. Fury is very eager to meet you, Peter.”

“I really hope that’s not a nickname for your right hook or something,” Peter said. The Captain just laughed.

“You’ve got trust issues, son,” he said.

“Well, you did just track me down inside a coffee shop in the middle of New York City that you couldn’t have possibly known I’d been in unless you were deliberately spying on me, and then admitted to tracking me for weeks, so, I think my skepticism is justified,” Peter said. The Captain shook his head.

“All right, all right, fair enough. Let’s pick up the pace—it’s not far from here.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“We’re recruiting Peter Parker to the Avengers. We have the Captain’s approval. We’ve talked to the other members of the team, and they don’t seem opposed,” Nick Fury said, his eye tracking Tony carefully. Tony was seated in an armchair in front of Fury’s desk. He hadn’t been listening to Fury for at least ten minutes (he’d been ranting—something about a media circus, blah blah who really cared), so he’d finally asked if he had anything else to tell him. He hadn’t really expected an answer.

“I’m the last to know?” Tony asked. He folded his arms across his chest. He would have stuck his feet up on Fury’s desk, but he was annoyed, not suicidal. “Well, just goes to show where I rank. Who’s Peter Parker?”

“You don’t know?” Fury asked. His hands steepled together, and he looked contemplative. It was a weird look on Fury, who usually looked…well, furious.

“I think we just went over the whole ‘wow I’m not in the loop that sucks’ thing,” Tony said dryly. “Since when did I lose decision-making rights in this group?”

“Since we figured you might have an…irrational visceral reaction to his appointment as a member,” Fury said carefully. He was obviously gauging Tony’s reaction. Tony had never seen him tiptoe around him before, or anyone for that matter.

“What the hell, Fury, if you have something to say, just spit it out,” Tony snapped. “Who the hell is Peter Parker?”

“Spider-Man,” Fury said.

“And you’re, what, afraid I’m arachnophobic? Because I’ve got to tell you, you’ve got that one all wrong, Chief. Steve’s the one who turned white when we found a tarantula in our hotel room, not me. And besides, we’ve already got a Black Widow on our team, so who cares? Has the guy got pincers or something?” Tony demanded. Fury sighed, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. Tony knew that vein well. Tony knew that vein better than he knew Fury.

“Peter Parker is Richard and Mary Parker’s son,” Fury said, and then he looked at Tony expectantly.

“I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?” he asked.

“I guess not,” Fury said slowly. “But you knew Mary. She had a different last name then. Mary Fitzpatrick.”

_Ah_.

“Look, Mary Fitzpatrick might have been stealing company secrets from me, but I’m not going to blame her kid for it,” Tony said, relaxing into the chair. “That was eons ago. Water under the bridge. And besides the plans she took never showed up at any of my competitors, anyway. No harm done.” No harm done so long as no one counted her betrayal as harm. Which Tony totally didn’t anymore. Not at all.

“That’s because she was working for us,” Fury said easily. “She was Natasha before Natasha.” Tony went still.

“If you tell me you planted Pepper I will actually kill you,” he said. Fury grunted.

“No but I sure as fuck wish I had,” he said. “That woman has you by the balls even more than Rogers does.”

“No comment,” Tony said. He sat quietly for a moment, which disturbed Fury as silence defied Stark’s every personality trait.

“Stark? Are we good?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, just thinking I should really send Mary Parker some flowers and a sincere apology. Said some nasty things. Some of them still apply, but, well, she was just doing her job. That’s better than selling out my tech to Oscorp or HammerTech. I guess,” Tony said absently. “Got an address?”

“Sure do. St. Margaret’s Cemetery, over on one-oh-ninth,” Fury said. Tony looked up at him sharply.

“What happened?”

“She was an agent, Stark, what do you think happened? Richard got in deep with Oscorp, who were in turn in deep with some nasty members of Hydra at the time. Richard was doing something off the books. Pissed the wrong people off. Got himself and Mary killed overseas. Peter lives with his Aunt in Queens,” Fury explained.

“I see,” Tony replied. “Well, if the kid can fight he’s fine in my book. Took down a giant lizard man, didn’t he?” Tony shrugged and got up. “If that’s all, Fury?”

“That’s all, Stark,” Fury grunted with his usual hard edge. Tony opened the door, then turned back around briefly.

“Saint Margaret’s, on one-oh-ninth, right?” he asked.

“That’s correct,” Fury said. Tony might have been imagining things, but he thought Fury’s tone sounded a bit softer than usual. Tony nodded.

“Got it,” he said, and then he walked out and shut the door behind him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Tony Stark arrived home to the smell of something irresistible cooking in the kitchen. Chicken parmesan, probably, though it could have been any number of marinara dependant dishes. As good as it smelled though, the dish was not the most irresistible thing in that kitchen. Tony Stark waltzed in, drinking in the sight of his new husband.

He would never get used to him. It wasn’t his perfect muscles, the line of his back, his unbelievable shoulder to waist ratio, or the strong line of his jaw that Tony really loved—though he certainly worshipped all of those things about him in their turn. It was the quirk of his lips when Tony said something funny that Steve didn’t want to _admit_ was funny. It was the way his eyebrows set whenever he had to be disapproving but _wasn’t_ actually disapproving. It was his wholehearted, genuine smile whenever he was happy, a smile so unguarded it was impossible not to feel its warmth. It was the look in his eyes when Tony told him he loved him. Perhaps this was all somewhat new—they’d only been dating three years, after all, and only just married—but instinct told Tony that he would never tire of Steve, and never cease to be surprised to find him still around. Tony wrapped his arms around his husband’s middle and put his chin on his shoulder—even though he had to tiptoe to do it.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” Tony asked. Steve just chuckled. Tony loved being this close to him when he laughed, loved feeling the vibrations through Steve’s back onto his own chest, like the laugh was running through him, too.

“Chicken parmesan,” Steve answered, turning around in Tony’s embrace. “It’s even cheesier than that one liner of yours.” He leaned down and Tony happily accepted his kiss. Yeah, he’d definitely never get used to this. When they broke apart, Steve returned to stirring the pot of whatever pasta he’d made to go along with the main dish. He was very serious about cooking, which was probably a good thing considering everything Tony made was inevitably burned, lacking several key ingredients, and also runny on the inside. Tony just didn’t have the patience for it. It wasn’t interesting enough to hold his attention. “How was work?”

“Ugh, obnoxious. Fury called me over to his office so I had to reschedule four meetings, and all he wanted to tell me was that we’re getting that new spider kid on the team,” Tony said. Steve turned the heat off the stovetop. Tony never saw him using timers; he seemed to have a weird sixth sense for when food was done, and it never failed to baffle Tony.

“He mentioned he was going to do that,” Steve said, draining the pasta over the sink, a carefully blank expression on his face that made Tony suspicious. “Though I was under the impression he was calling you in to yell at you about that news segment appearance.” Tony waved his hand.

“Yeah, yeah, he said something about that, too, I wasn’t really listening,” Tony said. For lack of anything to fiddle with, Tony started to set the table. It was positively, disgustingly domestic, but he knew that if he just stood around while Steve did everything, he’d start to give him _that look_ , and Tony tried to avoid _that look_ at all costs. Steve shot him a cautious glance, but said nothing. “What?”

            “I’m just—I’m curious. Fury told me you might object to Spider-Man being on the team but he wouldn’t tell me why. You don’t, do you?” Steve asked. He looked concerned. “Because—”

“No, I don’t object,” Tony said. Steve scooped some pasta onto the two plates Tony had set out. Steve’s plate, of course, had twice as much on it as Tony’s, and he was like as not to go back for seconds. “I don’t know if he’ll be _helpful_ , but there’s no reason not to give him a chance. And besides, if I know Bruce, he’s going to want to take a look at whatever the hell is going on with that kid’s DNA—it is genetic, isn’t it? Or is he some crazy technical genius? Because if so I might have to hire him. Is he out of high school yet?” Tony supposed he _might_ be some technical genius. Mary had been _brilliant_ , and—no. No, that was not a road that was worth going down. He probably wasn’t out of high school though. Tony didn’t remember Mary having kids. Then again, if she was a crazy SHIELD agent that was likely just part of her cover.

“I’m not sure yet, actually,” Steve said thoughtfully. “I didn’t ask. Should have, probably, but my job was just to recruit him. I know he just turned eighteen—I had to double check when he was going over the paperwork. No matter what Fury wants, I wasn’t about to let a minor onto the team. He’s probably still in high school but only just.”

“You met him, then?” Tony asked. Steve nodded thoughtfully as he took their dinner out of the oven and set it on the table.

“Yes, today. He’s a good kid from what I can tell. Skittish as hell though and I can tell he doesn’t trust SHIELD worth a dime. I think he calmed down a bit once he realized I wasn’t going to throw a black bag over his head and throw him in the ocean, but not by much,” Steve said, sitting down. Tony followed suit, both his eyebrows raised.

“He thought _you_ were going to go all 1920s gangster on him?” Tony asked. “He thought _Captain America_ was going to throw him in the Hudson with cement shoes?”

“Well, he didn’t know who I was at first, and I think I freaked him out a bit,” Steve said. Tony could understand, somewhere in his brain, a kid getting freaked out by Steve. He was very big and very strong, and Tony _knew_ he looked absolutely terrifying to villains, that his expression could be hard and unyielding as steel. But to Tony Steve was about as frightening as a golden retriever puppy.

“Well I hope he doesn’t scare easy in the field,” Tony said. The Avengers had only been going for the past six years, but they had already handled more dangerous situations than Tony could count. Who would have suspected that aliens had only been the beginning? It was always one thing after another with no reprieve, and while Tony appreciated Fury’s recent efforts to beef up the team with new members and a list of reserves, some had worked out better than others, and a high school kids did not sound incredibly promising, no matter what spider skills he had up his sleeve.

“From the footage I’ve been able to see he looks promising, actually,” Steve said. “Natasha will be sparring with him tomorrow to gauge where his skills are at. You’ll have a chance to talk to him if you’d like, see if he’s all tech or a genetic anomaly.” Steve paused, hesitating for a moment. Tony didn’t like that. Steve rarely ever hesitated about anything. Oh sure, he thought things through. He thought things through very thoroughly. But he never hesitated. Hesitation in the field meant an advantage for the other side; hesitation might be the difference between life and death. Steve tended to carry his battlefield mentalities home with him, so Tony’s suspicions spiked again. “Tony, why did Fury think you’d object to Spider-Man being on the team?” Tony winced internally. Steve knew all about his past. Well, maybe not _all_ about. There were some things that didn’t need to be described in excruciating detail, and Steve knew that. But even though Steve _knew_ about his past, Tony didn’t like having to throw it in his face.

“I uh, I knew his mother,” Tony said by way of explanation.

“In the biblical sense,” Steve clarified, and Tony nodded with a smirk.

“Yes, in the biblical sense,” he said. His smirk faded. “That wasn’t really it, though. It ended—badly, to say the least. She was my Pepper before Pepper. I trusted her. I liked her. I found out that she was stealing company secrets. Plans, shit from R&D that hadn’t been patented yet…with the amount of stuff she took, she could have ruined Stark Industries. If our competitors had gotten hold of _my_ tech… Anyway Fury told me today she was a SHIELD agent, so that explains why none of that ever happened. But I didn’t know that at the time. She was fired, and sued, but the lawsuit mysteriously fell apart and my legal department could never quite figure it out. Now it makes a lot more sense. Anyway I guess Fury figured I’d go all Professor Snape and hold a grudge against the kid and wow did I just make a pop culture reference from a children’s movie? I need to stop letting you pick our film choices.” Steve regarded him with a deep, pensive expression. Tony squirmed.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said finally. “And you’ll really be fine working with him?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Tony said dismissively. He was getting a bit uncomfortable with this line of discussion. He hadn’t thought about Mary Fitzpatrick since the early 2000s and frankly wished he never would have to ever again. Luckily for him, Steve was perfect. He understood without Tony having to say anything, and changed the subject to the latest episode of _Dog Cops_. That was a conversation Tony didn’t mind having. They finished their dinner with lively conversations about various television series—most of which Tony had introduced Steve to—and when they were all done and the dishes were in the dishwasher, Tony lost himself in Steve’s embrace, dissolving all thoughts of the late Miss Fitzpatrick.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Peter was not used to having fun in a fight, not really. For all his snappy one-liners and remarks, Peter was usually too concerned with keeping all his body parts in tact to _enjoy_ a fight. But fighting with Black Widow in a controlled environment where Peter _knew_ she wasn’t going to kill him? Well, it was more than a little thrilling. They’d been at it for nearly an hour already, but neither of them had really gained any traction. They’d only given Peter one instruction: no powers. He’d explained that he had super strength and super reflexes and had attempted to explain his spidey sense to a very confused looking Captain America, but they hadn’t minded that. They just told him not to climb to the ceiling or use his webs. Peter was fine with those rules, and even with the minor handicaps he was still holding his own.

“All right, Widow, Spider-Man, I think that’s enough,” Captain America said. He’d been watching from the sidelines the whole time, occasionally taking notes on a tablet. For some reason, the tablet kind of surprised Peter. He figured a guy from the forties would use pen and paper; but then again, Peter guessed that he _wasn’t_ really from the forties, he was just a new incarnation of the legend. He wore a small smile and looked a bit impressed, which did things that were probably terrible for Peter’s ego. “Nice job, Peter. I’m sure you both could go longer, but I’ve received a request to have you down in the lab—you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions for Dr. Bruce Banner or Tony Stark, would you?”

“Shouldn’t he be ‘doctor’ too?” Peter asked absently, without realizing wholly what he was saying. That was a thought that _should_ have stayed in his head. He _meant_ to say, ‘no, of course not Captain’, but that hadn’t worked out very well. Captain America was understandably caught a bit off guard.

“Sorry, what?” he asked.

“Well, doesn’t Tony Stark have three doctorates? I read that somewhere. So shouldn’t he be Dr. Stark?” Peter clarified.

“Oh,” the Captain said, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “I…I suppose you’re right, Peter. Never really thought about it before.” Peter shrugged.

“Sorry, that was kind of irrelevant. I don’t mind them asking questions. I’d rather not be poked and prodded too much, though,” he said. The Captain just smiled.

“I’ll make sure they don’t make a lab rat out of you,” he said. The Captain nodded to Widow. “Thanks for performing the evaluation, Natasha.” The Black Widow just nodded in response, regarding Peter with an inquisitive stare. Even though he’d never gotten ‘killed’ by her in the practice, she still scared him, and he found himself inching closer to the Captain. Luckily for Peter, the Captain started walking, expecting him to follow, and Peter got to leave the Black Widow behind.

All of SHIELD seemed so spotless to Peter. As they walked through the halls of the Triskelion, everything seemed polished and perfect. The large glass windows afforded a lovely view of the New York City skyline, impressive even in daylight. Men and women in perfectly tailored business attire walked briskly through the halls, punctuated every now and again by men and women in uniform.

The lab itself was hugely impressive. It reminded Peter of his brief encounters with the labs at Oscorp—spacious, shiny, and filled with extraordinarily expensive equipment. In this particular lab were also two particularly expensive assets—Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, who were debating. At first Peter thought they were debating something important and scientific, but as he got closer he realized they were actually debating the potential reality of Cylons from _Battlestar Galactica_.

“I don’t think it’s unlikely. Have you _met_ JARVIS?” Stark asked. “I mean, come on.” It was strange, seeing the man in person. Just a few days ago, he would have greeted the man with veritable hero worship, would have stood rooted to the spot, star stricken. But now all he could focus on was the fact that their eyes were the very same shape and shade.

“But JARVIS doesn’t have _feelings_ ,” Dr. Banner disagreed. Stark smirked. Maybe Peter was being ridiculous at this point, but he could swear that even their smirks looked the same. Would the other team members notice? Would they see a resemblance? Peter felt panic rising—but no, he stomped it down. He was being paranoid. They wouldn’t notice. They wouldn’t suspect. Why would they?

“You tell that to JARVIS and see if your coffeemaker ever works again,” he said. “I’m telling you—“

“Dr. Banner, Tony,” Captain America said in a loud, clear voice, drawing them out of their bubble. “This is Peter Parker, codename Spider-Man. I believe you wanted to speak with him? Peter, this is Dr. Banner and Tony Stark, codenames Hulk and Iron Man.” The combined intense focus of the two scientists made Peter suddenly self-conscious. He was still sweaty from the sparring. His hair was probably a mess. He wished he’d asked the Captain if he could shower first. But then, neither the Hulk nor Iron Man regarded him with expressions that bore any judgment for his appearance. Rather, they both looked at Peter the way that Peter usually regarded Fred and Wilma. Stark had no problems approaching quickly.

“Right, Arachnakid,” Stark said, “so, what is it? Drugs? Genetics? Tech?” He was only inches away from him. Peter took a subtle step backwards.

“Uh, spider bite,” Peter said. “And some tech of mine.”

“Spider bite? No kidding? That venom sure packs a wallop,” Dr. Banner commented. He hadn’t moved from his position; he seemed to be examining something through a microscope.

“It was genetically modified,” Peter said. “An Oscorp spider.” Stark rolled his eyes.

“Why does that not surprise me at all?” he asked sarcastically, wandering back over to Dr. Banner. “Oh, maybe it’s because of the crazy lizard man hybrid they cooked up. Or any one of a number of their ethical violations since their founding. Disgusting company—don’t tell me you worked there or something.” Stark leveled a quick, suspicious look at him, but Peter shook his head.

“No, I uh—it’s kind of a long story. My girlfriend interned there,” Peter said. Of course, she hadn’t been his girlfriend then and it had little to nothing to do with the story, but it was better than explaining what he was really doing at Oscorp. The Avengers seemed to take that as a good enough explanation in and of itself.

It was incredibly odd to be speaking to his biological father. He might have been seeing things, but he couldn’t help but notice all the tiny expressions he made that Peter recognized as his own, couldn’t help but compare the size of their noses, the color of their hair, the shape of their eyes.

“So what are your powers, exactly?” Dr. Banner asked, drawing Peter back out of himself.

“Uh, well, proportional strength and speed of a spider, increased reaction time, a slight healing factor, ability to stick to just about anything, and my uh—spidey sense? I don’t know what it is, but I just get this…feeling when I’m in danger or something’s about to happen.”

“Precognition?” Dr. Banner asked.

“I don’t really know,” Peter said a bit helplessly. This was all rather new to him, too.

“Would you mind if I took a blood sample, Peter?” Dr. Banner asked, syringe and needle already in hand. “I’d love to see how your powers work with your biology.” Peter nodded his acquiescence and stepped forward. He held his arm out as Dr. Banner tied his arm with a bit of rubber.

“Just keep it to the one sample today, Bruce,” Captain America instructed lightly.

“I’ll only need the one for now,” Dr. Banner said. Peter felt the pinch of the needle, but it was over quickly. Dr. Banner obviously had a lot of experience drawing blood. He put a cotton ball and a bandage over the pinprick mark and removed the tie quickly.

“So you mentioned tech—what tech do you use?” Stark inquired.

“My webshooters,” Peter said. He wasn’t wearing any, but he’d brought them. He unzipped a compartment in his backpack and drew one out. Stark got close again, so Peter just handed the webshooter over to him; Peter had emptied the web cartridge earlier. Stark stayed at a reasonable distance, puzzling over the device.

“You made this?” Stark asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty simple,” Peter said with a shrug. “And the webbing came from Oscorp kits, though I reverse engineered it and can make my own now…I figured ordering massive amounts of webbing from them would be expensive and also _really suspicious_.” Stark fixed him with a stare. Peter shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. He had the overwhelming urge to either run away or blurt out his secret, but of course he did nothing of the sort.

“You _reverse engineered_ some of _Oscorps’s biotech_?” Stark asked, disbelieving. Peter shrugged.

“I like chemistry?” he said.

“You like chemistry,” Stark repeated. He turned his gaze to Captain America. “What I said at dinner? I think that applies.” Stark handed the webshooter back to Peter. “I’d love to take a closer look at that sometime. And the synthetic webs. Welcome to the team, kid.”

“Thanks,” Peter said.

“All right, are we done here?” Captain America asked. Dr. Banner and Stark nodded. “Great. I’ll bet you’re itching to get cleaned up, right Peter?” Peter slung his backpack over his shoulder and nodded. “Good. We’ll see you later, Bruce, Tony.”

“Hey don’t forget it’s my turn to cook dinner tonight so you’re going to need to tell me what kind of Chinese you’re in the mood for,” Stark reminded Captain America. Captain America just chuckled.

“I think I’m in the mood for lo mein,” he said, opening the door for Peter. Peter scurried through.

“That’s not an answer, what _kind_ of lo mein?” Stark demanded.

“Figure it out, Tony,” Captain America said, rolling his eyes.

“But—” Captain America just shut the door behind him, cutting off whatever Stark was going to say next. He gave Peter a mischievous smile. Peter was startled to see such a look on Captain America of all people.

“Now he’ll order _all_ kinds of lo mein out of panic and indecision,” Captain America said. “So we’ll get to sample a bit of everything, and I get to watch him run himself into a tizzy over dinner which is always kind of hilarious. It’s a win-win, really.” It was rather un-Captain America like, that level of domestic manipulation. Peter was caught off guard.

“Do you all usually eat as a team then?” Peter asked, confused. Captain America blinked.

“As a team? Oh, no, no, it’s just me and Tony,” Captain America said. He paused for a moment, then continued. “We’re married. It’s not _exactly_ public knowledge. I prefer to keep Steve Rogers separate from Captain America.”

_His name is Steve_ , Tony Stark had said on that news program. Of course. Peter felt rather stupid, and he felt himself go a bit red.

“Oh,” was all he said. Captain America frowned slightly.

“Problem?” he asked.

“Huh? Oh n-no, Captain America, sir. I just—I should have guessed. They said on the news he married a guy named Steve, I just didn’t put two and two together because…well because you’re Captain America,” Peter said. That felt better than saying ‘because I kind of forgot you had a real name there for a minute’. Peter felt like he had too much information to process all at once. He’d just met Tony Stark, Iron Man, his _father_. Also he was apparently married to Captain America. Also he might have been impressed by his webshooters, which seemed like a positive sign. Captain America clapped him on the shoulder.

“Just call me Steve, Peter,” he said. “After all, we’re teammates now.” His hand slipped off Peter’s shoulder and he showed him to the locker rooms.

Right. Teammates. Peter felt his stomach do a flip. He’d managed to hold his own against Black Widow. He’d taken out supervillains on his own in the field. But how would he hold up as an _Avenger_?

Well, there was only one way to find out. And for that, he’d have to wait.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

How would he hold up as an Avenger? Spectacularly, as it turned out. Peter got his first big call with the team just a week later when AIM decided to cause some havoc in Boston. He’d been a huge help (Captain America told him so, so it had to be true) in getting a lot of the more obnoxious guys off the ground, immobilizing them with his synthetic webs so they wouldn’t have to use much force.

For a whole month, he worked well with the team. For a month, he was the new rising star of the Avengers, with all of the newspapers wanting to know about the vigilante-turned-hero. For a whole, blissful month, everything was going well.

Yet like most good things in Peter’s life, that one blissful month couldn’t last. Peter had, for that whole month, mostly managed to avoid one Tony Stark. He’d loaned him his spare pair of webshooters, but he had left those with his CEO slash secretary (Peter wasn’t really sure how that worked—he didn’t know if she was _actually_ his secretary or if she was just being nice in taking his tech to Tony herself) and had gotten them back by way of the Captain. In battle they hadn’t conversed much—the Captain sent out orders, and Peter followed them. Peter came in occasionally for training (read: sparring) at the Triskelion, but that was typically with Natasha (who was terrifying), Steve (who enjoyed having a more equal partner), or Clint Barton (who was probably about as snarky as Peter though perhaps not as witty). None of those people were his father, so Peter dealt with them just fine.

But then Thor decided to stop in town. Peter hadn’t worked with Thor yet on a mission, torn between Midgard and Asgard as he was. He did not split his time equally by any means—he tended to favor Earth—but they rarely had to bring in the big guns. So Captain America, seeing that Peter hadn’t interacted much with Tony, Bruce, or Thor, decided that they were in need of a team bonding night. Steve proposed dinner at Stark Tower (assuring everyone that HE would be doing the cooking, not his husband) and a movie afterward for anyone inclined to join.

Peter was sure that he could make it through one dinner without spazzing out. He was sure he could make it through one dinner without blurting out his giant secret. He was _sure_ he could keep his mouth shut. Right up until the moment when he opened it.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Tony wasn’t sure how long he’d been ‘testing’ the modifications on his repulsors for. Jarvis set up holographic targets, and Tony hit them, the blasts harmlessly hitting the wall Tony had reinforced and designed just for this purpose. Still, he’d probably been testing the modifications for a lot longer than was appropriate. But since when did Tony Stark do anything appropriate?

“Hey, Tony,” Steve’s chipper voice interrupted his thoughts. Tony looked over his shoulder, lowering his arm. The repulsor powered down with a whine. “Are you going to be ready for the dinner soon? It’s in half an hour.” Tony looked back at the wall. He brought his arm off and got one more blast off, the hologram dissipating into the air with the satisfying noise of glass breaking he’d programmed JARVIS to make. He put his arm back down.

“Yeah, Cap. I’ll shower in a bit,” he said, still staring at the black wall. He felt Steve’s broad, warm hand on his shoulder. He looked over at the other man, whose eyes were filled with concern.

“You ok?” Steve asked quietly. “Is this about Peter?” Tony wrenched away.

“No it’s _not_ about _Peter!_ ” Tony said. His arm came back up and he destroyed another target. He took a breath. “Ok, maybe a _little_ about that punk kid.”

“I’m sorry, when did Spider-Man, amazing techno web-head become ‘that punk kid’?” Steve asked. He sounded like he was warring with himself between being amused and concerned.

“It’s not _about_ him. It’s not—it’s about his _existence_ ,” Tony admitted. He started removing the arm of the suit, gently removing the wires he’d hooked up to his own arc reactor. “I hadn’t really thought about it until the other day, but I looked up his file and—his birthday’s in _June_ , Steve.”

“I’m not following, Tony,” Steve said, a crease appearing in his forehead. Tony sighed in exasperation.

“ _June!_ I was still _dating_ Mary in October, I didn’t realize what was going _on_ until practically Christmas. We were dating and she was _pregnant_. And all that time—all that time she was with _fucking_ Richard Parker,” Tony said. He wished he’d kept the arm on—he wanted to shoot something again. He kicked at the leg of a table instead. He immediately regretted it, as a bunch of his equipment went flying to the floor from the jolt and his toes hurt.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Steve said. It was all he _could_ say, really.

“You know, it’s funny. It’s funny, because the _fucking_ corporate espionage I could forgive, the fucking _spying for SHIELD_ I could forgive—but what the _hell_ did she gain from fucking me and then going home and—” Tony couldn’t even finish the sentence. “It’s…it’s probably stupid that I’m pissed off. I mean, I’ve got you, right? Why the hell am I pissed off about something that happened almost twenty years ago? But I _am_.” Steve was there almost instantly, wrapping his arms around Tony in a hug. Tony hadn’t ever really liked hugs until he met Steve. Steve’s were so earnest and warm and comforting that you couldn’t _help_ but like them.

“It’s because she _hurt_ you,” Steve said quietly, practically murmuring into Tony’s neck. “I’m sorry she hurt you, Tony. I’m not going to hurt you like that.”

“I know you’re not,” Tony said, gently pulling away. “I’m just—I’m pissed at a dead woman and how pathetic is that? I’m pissed at a fucking _orphan_ who had nothing to do with it—God, I really am Professor Snape.”

“You’re not Professor Snape, Tony,” Steve said, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. “You’re not Professor Snape unless you let this get in the way of your job, unless you take it out on him.”

“Hmph.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Are we going to have a problem?”

“No!” Tony exclaimed, even more pissed off. “No, we’re not going to have a fucking problem Captain TightAss, jeez.”

“You know I’d take that as an insult except I know how much you love my—”

“Is something burning?” Tony asked, sniffing the air.

“Oh no! My lasagna!” Steve said, then rushed off to the kitchen, taking the stairs five at a time.

Of course they wouldn’t have a problem. No problems at all. None. Zero. Zip. Tony was always the _epitome_ of the professional. He never let his personal problems get in the way of his job, nope. This was fine. Tony was _sure_ he could get through this. Just _one_ dinner. He was _sure_ he’d make it through without making any totally uncalled for jabs at the kid. He was _sure_ he could keep his mouth shut. Right up until the moment when he opened it.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Everything was going fine. Really. They were all relaxed at the table, everyone telling stories and jokes and generally enjoying each other’s company. Thor was very confused about what ‘lasagna’ was and kept trying to eat it layer by layer, but he was very happy to meet ‘our new spider friend’. The other Avengers had goaded Peter into having a glass of wine with dinner despite his being— _gasp_ —underage (“If you’re old enough to risk your life up against super-powered people on a regular basis, I think you’re old enough to drink,” Clint had reasoned, and surprisingly not even Captain America had been reproachful), and had enjoyed teasing him about every aspect of his life—especially Gwen.

Peter had noticed, though, that Stark had been quite quiet all through dinner, and Tony Stark had never struck Peter as the quiet type. It threw him off balance and weirded him out. He wondered if it had something to do with him? But no, it couldn’t. Tony Stark didn’t know a damn thing about him. He certainly didn’t know his big secret, so there was nothing that Peter could have possibly done to put that pensive, brooding look on Stark’s face or that ever refilling cup of wine in his hand.

Except, every now and then, Stark would shoot him a look. It was a look that said, “that joke wasn’t funny” or “you aren’t as clever as you think you are” or “God, this kid is on _our_ team?” Peter thought he was imagining things, but he was getting more and more uncomfortable as the dinner went on.

“So where are you going to take her for your anniversary, then?” Clint asked him. Peter had mentioned that his and Gwen’s six-month anniversary, which they counted from the night he joined her family for dinner, had been about a month ago but that they had both forgotten to celebrate amidst the AIM attack. They’d agreed to do something special soon, but Peter was planning to surprise her. Peter opened his mouth to answer, but Stark opened his first.

“Better go somewhere nice while it lasts,” he said. Peter’s eyebrows knit together. That had sounded a bit rude.

“Sorry?” Peter asked, thinking he must have misheard.

“Well, I mean, you’re what, eighteen? Even if you make it to a year, you won’t last long after that. She’s a scientist isn’t she? She’ll go off to college and you—well, you’ll stay here. Keep Avengering and all that. You really think this little relationship of yours will last past high school? Please. And that’s not even considering the Parkers’ track rec—ow,” Stark complained at the last. Steve was glaring at him and had obviously kicked him under the table.

“I think that pie should come out of the oven now, if we’re all ready for dessert? Tony, come help me get new plates for everybody,” Steve commanded. Stark just gave him a sour look.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean the Parker’s track record?” Peter asked. He could feel anger building inside of him. What right did this asshole have to _be_ an asshole?

“Look, kid, sometimes we have to face the harsh truth, and the truth of it is your mother was a cheating—”

“PIE!” Steve yelled as he stood up, nearly knocking over his own chair in the process. “Pie _now_ , Tony.” Peter only saw _red_ , and he stood, his hands braced on the table.

“ _What were you about to call my mother_?” he demanded.

“Guys…take it easy—Jesus, Stark, why do you have to be such an ass—“ Clint said. Stark put down his wine glass and looked Peter in the eyes.

“Ok, here’s the deal, your mother? She was my secretary. We had a thing. Same time as she was dating _your dad_. Same time she was _pregnant with you_. So, yeah, she was a cheating wh—”

“She _was not_!” Peter shouted above him. Stark rolled his eyes and looked about to contest the facts, so Peter couldn’t help it. He opened his mouth again. “She wasn’t dating Richard Parker while she was dating you, you _dick_ , she was pregnant with me because _you’re my father_ you fucking _asshole_ , so don’t you dare say anything about _my mother_ when the real creep here is _you_!”

It dawned on Peter about two seconds later exactly what he’d said. Apparently, it dawned on everybody else in that same amount of time.

“Did—did that really just happen?” Clint stage whispered to Natasha.

Stark was looking at him. Stark was _staring_ at him. But he was far from uncomprehending. There were a bunch of emotions on that face, and Peter didn’t feel like picking any one of them out.

“Shit,” Peter said finally, feeling a little color coming to his cheeks now that his outburst was done. “I hadn’t actually meant to tell you that. Ok… well then. Spider-Man out!”

Peter did his best not to _run_ to the elevator. He was immensely relieved when he made it inside.

Nobody stopped him on his way out.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Tony, come on, come to bed. Staring out the window in abject horror’s not going to do anybody any good,” Steve said gently, putting an arm around his husband’s waist and tugging gently. Tony didn’t budge. He shook his head.

“I didn’t even—it didn’t even enter my _thought process_ —how stupid am I?” Tony asked. He wasn’t looking at Steve, just staring out that window. Steve gently pulled the glass of bourbon from his left hand. At least Tony didn’t resist.

“I can’t say the thought never crossed my mind when you mentioned she was pregnant while you were dating,” Steve admitted, “but I didn’t think of it as any more than a passing thought. He does…he does look a bit like you, though. And his humor—with retrospect, Tony, it’s all…it’s all very you. And the whole tech genius thing—”

“Stop, stop, just stop,” Tony said, finally wrenching away from him and moving to sit on the bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in deeply like he was in pain. Steve sat down next to him but kept his hands to himself.

“It’s not…it’s not a big bad scary thing, Tony. It doesn’t have to be,” Steve said softly.

“Look, no offense, big guy, but you’re not in my shoes right now,” Tony said. “My shoes suck right now. I’ve just learned there’s an eighteen-year-old dressed in a spider costume out there running around with half my DNA. This isn’t something you take in stride. I mean—come on. What if you found out Peggy was pregnant before you hit the ice? That somewhere out there you had a son running around. I mean, I guess for you that would be even weird because your kid would be _older_ than you but—do you get it? It’s weird. And not good. All kinds of not good.” Tony stood abruptly. “I’m going to—I need to—there’s stuff in the lab that needs to be worked on.”

“Tony…”

“Just—don’t try to drag me to bed right now, Steve. I won’t be able to sleep. Lying awake and—and thinking about this won’t do me any good, either,” Tony pointed out. So Steve let him go. He looked up to the ceiling.

“Keep an eye on him, JARVIS?” Steve asked.

“Always, sir,” JARVIS replied. His mind only slightly set at ease, he moved underneath the covers. Tony would have to work this out on his own. There were no other options.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Oh, you _didn’t_ , Peter,” Gwen breathed out in horror as he finished his story.

“I _know_. I _did_. God, I just—I was _so pissed_ and it just—it just _slipped out,_ you know? Ugh. And, Jesus, Gwen, the way they all _looked_ at me. Everybody was so horrified. And then there was him and he just—I don’t even want to know what he was thinking about. It was—it was horror, and disgust, and fury and—really, Gwen, I thought he might leap over the table and strangle me right then and there. And I was kind of ready to strangle _him_ so it was pretty mutual.” Peter buried his head in Gwen’s shoulder. He’d snuck into her bedroom by way of the window yet again, and they were cuddling on her bed. Peter clung to her a bit like an octopus. Her presence was a comfort, a balm to the burning embarrassment that ran through him every time he thought about what happened.

“And none of them _said_ anything?” Gwen asked, a bit astonished.

“Well, Clint, he asked Natasha if that really just happened and—and then I just bailed, you know? I didn’t _want_ to stick around,” Peter said.

“Has he—has he texted you or anything?” Gwen asked.

“I don’t think so,” Peter said. He pulled out his phone.

_0 messages._

“No,” Peter confirmed.

“Give it time, Peter,” Gwen said comfortingly. “I’m sure he’s just…you know, surprised. He has to be surprised. That’s—that’s a lot to process in one moment. At a public dinner. After arguing. Whilst drunk. I bet he calls you in the morning so you two can work things out.” Peter groaned.

“I hope not,” he said. “I never want to see him again. First of all— _asshole_ , as I already explained, second of all—wow, most embarrassing moment of my life—and I’ve had a lot of those—and he was witness. They were _all_ witness and now it’s just—just _awkward_. I fucked it up, Gwen. It was going _fine_ until Tony Stark had to open his big mouth—”

“So, what, you’re just going to drop being an Avenger? Peter, I have to say, that is the _least_ mature response to this situation,” Gwen scolded him gently.

“I don’t care,” Peter mumbled into her shoulder. She ran her hand through his hair.

“Peter…”

“You didn’t _see_ the look on his face, Gwen,” Peter said quietly. “I don’t—I don’t want to go back. I’m just going to do what I was doing before. Obviously SHIELD doesn’t care.”

“If that’s what you really want, Peter,” Gwen said with a sigh. She kissed the top of his head. “But I really think you should give it some time. This won’t be as embarrassing in a few days.”

“I think you underestimate the awkwardness of that scene I caused,” Peter disagreed. He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Everyone was still staring at him, wide-eyed. Stark, his hand still holding a wine glass. His eyes going dark, his brows connecting, disgust and anger mingling with the shock. That was not the face of someone happy to receive this news. That was the face of someone asking, ‘the fuck did I do to deserve this?’ Peter’s heart hammered even now just thinking about it, his stomach twisting. He had not prepared for rejection because he had not planned on telling Stark of their relation. It was easier that way. But now he’d gone and done it by accident and ruined everything.

“Why do I have to be such a _spaz_?” Peter moaned.

“Oh, Peter.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            No one seemed to have noticed. No one said anything. Peter had skipped all practice and hadn’t set foot in the Triskelion since ‘the incident’. No one had texted or called or pestered him at all. He thought he’d gotten away clean. At least, he thought he’d gotten away clean until Steve Rogers showed up two weeks later on a Saturday evening just outside the movie theater after he and Gwen had finished watching the latest _Batman_. There he stood, dressed in a long black coat, that same red scarf and those ridiculous blue earmuffs.

            “Oh,” Peter said as soon as he saw him standing nearby, clearly waiting for Peter and Gwen to get out of their movie. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” Steve said, not unkindly. “I’m sorry to interrupt your date, Peter, but I didn’t want to meet you at your home. I know you’re rather adamant that your Aunt not know about…some of your activities. I was hoping there might be somewhere we could talk.”

            “Well, I mean, there would be, but, uh, I should really get Gwen home, and—”

            “Oh, no, you are not using _me_ as an excuse, Peter Parker,” Gwen said. She kissed him briefly. “Go sort things out. I can get home from here on my own just fine.” Before Peter could protest, Gwen’s hand had slipped from his and she was out the door.

            “So—you in the mood for coffee?” Steve asked. Peter shrugged, and the next thing he knew he was sitting in the coffeehouse next door to the cinema, drinking hot chocolate at a table with Captain America. Steve hadn’t said anything yet. Peter was reluctant to. He stared into his coffee a lot. Finally he realized that Steve was waiting for _him_ to speak, so he did.

            “So did you come here to dismiss me for skipping practice, or what?” Peter asked finally.

            “No. And I’m not here to ask why, either, because I think we both know that would be a dumb question. I’m here to see if you’re ever coming back,” Steve said carefully. He took a sip of his own coffee. Peter shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

            “I don’t know. It’s…” Peter trailed off.

            “It’s complicated now. I get that,” Steve agreed. “But you’re still a very valuable member of our team, Peter, no matter how complicated…personal matters might get. I thought you were really fitting in and we were doing well.” Peter shrugged. The Captain was right, of course. They _had_ been doing well. Until Peter went and screwed it all up. Steve sighed.

            “Look, Peter, I’m doing my best to keep this away from personal. But I know Tony’s texted you a couple of times, and—”

            “Um, no?” Peter said, raising an eyebrow. Steve blinked.

            “No?”

            “No,” Peter repeated. “I haven’t—he hasn’t—there’s been no—you know.” Steve muttered something under his breath that sounded distinctly like “that big chicken.” He sighed and shook his head.

            “Ok. Fine. Tony hasn’t texted you at all. Your absence makes a little more sense now. Look—it’s not—we want you back, Peter. You’re good on the team. And I think the team is good for you. And even if you don’t want anything to do with Tony in your personal life, I hope we can make it work on the team at least,” Steve said.

            “I just…I know I made everything really awkward, and I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry about that, but now it _is_ and I can’t help that. So I just figured—you know, maybe it’s best if I don’t come back,” Peter said. Steve looked a little pained.

            “No, Peter, no. It’s—the awkwardness, that will pass. It’s just—you surprised everyone, that’s all. And that’s not your fault. Tony was goading you, insulting your mother—you know, if it’d been me, I’d’ve decked the guy, so I know why you said what you did. And I appreciate that you didn’t deck him, because I appreciate my husband’s face as it is,” Steve said. Peter allowed him the smallest of grins. Encouraged, Steve continued. “We all liked having you on the team. So will you come back? Practice tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred?”

            “Will—he’s not going to be there, right?” Peter asked cautiously.

            “No, Tony won’t be there,” Steve said, his own smile flagging a little. “But of course—you two will still have to work together in the field. Will that be an issue?”

            “No,” Peter said slowly. “But I think you should leave me off the dinner invites.”

            “Ok, that’s fair,” Steve agreed, but he did look a little…worried? Sad? “Can I ask you something personal?” Peter felt himself tense a little, but he _liked_ the Captain. He liked him a lot. So he nodded curtly. “Is it—do you hate him?”

            “Stark?” Peter asked.  Steve nodded. Peter shook his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just—it’s just _weird_. And I hadn’t intended to say anything about it, you know? I hadn’t intended to change anything. It just slipped out. I don’t hate the guy, I just—I mean, I’m not his biggest fan, but I don’t hate him. He’s just…you know. Some guy who happens to share my DNA. I don’t really know him well enough to hate him.”

            “So why—why didn’t you say anything before this? I mean, before you joined the Avengers. I understand not wanting to make things awkward, but why not say anything before then?” Steve asked.

            “I probably would have, but you kind of happened to recruit me to the team the day after I found out,” Peter said. “I’d thought—I never knew Richard Parker _wasn’t_ my biological father. He raised me until I was seven, him and Mom. They never told me. And I mean, I get why. My Aunt and Uncle were told not to tell me, too. I only found out because I was going through my family’s medical history—funny thing, realizing your Dad was _sterile_ years before he ever got your mother pregnant.”

            “Oh,” Steve said. “Oh.”

            “Yeah.” Peter drained the rest of his coffee and stood. “I should probably be getting back to Queens…”

            “Of course, of course,” Steve said, standing up. He eyed Peter carefully. “You know I don’t—I’m not really sure how much of this is my business, but I just—I encourage you to give him a chance, Peter. Tony can be—Tony can be an asshole, but he’s a genuinely good person underneath it all. I really mean that. I mean, I married him, I think he’s great.”

            “I’m not—I don’t think you understand, Captain,” Peter said, “I don’t hate the guy. I’m just not looking for anything from him, you know? I don’t expect him to want anything to do with me, beyond what’s required for the Avengers. I’m just some punk kid who happens to share his DNA, and I know that. He hasn’t contacted me, and I can’t imagine that he wants to. That’s ok. Really, it’s ok. I’d prefer it if we could all just…move past this.”

            Was it really what he’d prefer? Peter wasn’t sure. He couldn’t get the knot out of his stomach, the knot that had been there ever since that day he’d discovered he was not Richard Parker’s son.

            “Right,” Steve said. “Ok. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

            “Yeah, tomorrow,” Peter agreed, and he left the coffeeshop like hell hounds were biting at his heels.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“So, you texted the kid, huh?” Steve asked his husband as soon as he returned from the coffee shop. Tony had on his gloves for welding, and a face shield that was currently up. He drank coffee, obviously preparing for a long night of work.

“What kid? Oh. That kid. Yeah,” Tony said, waving him off.

“Couple times, you said,” Steve said, folding his arms.

“…yes? He never answered,” Tony said. He put down his coffee mug. “We went over this. What’s with the sudden interest?”

“Well, I went to go see him today—no, don’t look at me like that, I went to see him in a _professional_ capacity to see if he planned to return to the team, and I _might_ have tried to strike up a more personal discussion and discovered that you have _not_ in fact, texted him. So why did you lie to me, Tony?” Steve demanded. Tony got that guilty, caught-red-handed expression usually reserved for when Steve caught him in the lab after he’d _thought_ they’d both gone to bed.

“I didn’t—I—ok, I did—but—I was _planning_ on texting him. I just—what do you _say_? ‘Hey kid, sorry I was about to call your mother a cheating whore, are we cool?’” Tony said. “’Hey kid, sorry I haven’t been around for eighteen years, I didn’t really know you existed—we cool?’”

“He didn’t know you did, either,” Steve informed him. At Tony’s blank look, Steve clarified, “He thought Richard Parker was his father up until a month ago. I guess he found out Parker was sterile.”

“Oh,” Tony said. “Well. Good.”

“Good?” Steve asked.

“Good! He wasn’t—I don’t know, pining after some idealized father-figure in the form of _me_ for years or anything. Because that shit’s too much to live up to,” Tony said. He took another gulp of his coffee. It was probably cold. Tony always forgot he had drinks out and would find them hours later and still chug them down. Steve didn’t know how he did that. He wasn’t one to waste food, but he _was_ one to at least pop it in the microwave first. “Did he say anything to you? Did you guys have some kind of heart to heart thing?”

“No, not really,” Steve admitted. “I—I’m not really sure how much of this is really my business, Tony. I mean I guess—I guess technically I’m his stepfather, right? But seeing as he doesn’t even _know_ you, I feel like that doesn’t count for anything. But he said he just wants to…to move past this. But I’m not sure that’s what—”

“Move past this? I can do that,” Tony said. “I can definitely do that.”

“Tony…” Steve said, trailing off. He felt a little lost. He wasn’t sure how much he should get involved. It was such a delicate situation—did he have any right to interfere? But then Tony pulled down his mask and headed over to his tools, obviously ready to continue with his work and drop the conversation, and Steve knew that he couldn’t just let this _go_.

“He’s all alone, Tony. He has his Aunt, but she’s _all_ he has. I think he needs you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it,” Steve said.

“He’s eighteen, Steve,” Tony said, his voice oddly echo-y from the mask. He picked up a blowtorch. “He might be a kid to the rest of us, but he’ll be moving on with his life soon enough. He’s already had a father and an uncle, right? And he has that aunt of his, and his girlfriend, and he’s probably got friends, and as far as work goes he’s got the avengers, right? He’ll be fine. He doesn’t need a ‘daddy’—believe me, Steve, some of us are better off without one.”

Steve didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He took a seat on the couch in the lab and pulled out his sketchbook. If Tony was going to talk, Steve knew, he’d have to start it on his own.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Things weren’t as weird or as awkward as Peter had anticipated. No one mentioned his little outburst the next time they trained (though Peter guessed Steve might have had something to do with that). Clint might have muttered something about him being ‘mini-Stark’ when he kicked his ass in a snark-session, but Peter pretended not to hear that comment. In the field, Peter had about as much interaction with Iron Man as he ever had. Everything was back to normal. Except for one thing.

“Fury, huh?” the Captain asked. Peter nearly jumped. Their briefing had just finished and Peter had—well, he hadn’t been paying the best of attention to what was going on. He _might_ have been doodling a cartoon of a very large-headed and small-bodied Nick Fury screaming about regulations and blah blah blah. It wasn’t exactly the most professional of things to be caught doing. But there was Captain America, standing over his shoulder as everyone else had vacated the room, looking down at his little doodle.

“Uhhh,” Peter said, scrambling to come up with something intelligent to say, but all he could think was ‘ _I’m so fired_.’

“It’s pretty good for a doodle,” the Captain remarked. “You draw a lot?”

“…yes?” Peter said. His brain still wasn’t functioning properly. He wondered when he was going to get chewed out for his inappropriate behavior.

“I do, too,” the Captain said. “Went to Pratt for art before the war.” Peter wondered briefly _which_ war, but he didn’t ask. The Captain reached down and grabbed a pencil off the table. Before Peter could ask what he was doing, the Captain was sketching in something next to Nick Fury. When he moved his hand, Peter could see he’d drawn a costumed Spider-Man slumped over and drooling on a table, out cold. Peter laughed. He looked up at Steve a bit sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he said. Steve just smiled and raised an eyebrow.

“Just be glad _I_ caught you and not Fury,” he said.

“I am, I am,” Peter said quickly. Steve glanced down at Peter’s doodle again.

“You got any idea what you’re doing after high school?” he asked.

“Uh…avenging stuff?” Peter said. Steve smiled gently.

“Well, that’s fair. It’s a big job, and it should pay you enough to live on. But have you thought about college? Or art school? Something to do besides run around in tights with a bunch of costumed crazy people twice your age?” Steve’s question was an innocent one, but Peter felt his mind go blank. He really _hadn’t_ given it all that much thought. He’d sent in applications a few places, but he hadn’t taken it very seriously. After all, being an Avenger _was_ a very big job. Peter scratched the back of his neck.

“I applied a couple places,” he admitted.

“Anywhere for art?” Steve asked.

“Ah, no,” Peter said. “I just doodle. I was going for physics.”

“Ah, right. Science whiz, almost forgot,” Steve said. He continued to stand there as Peter put away his things. Peter glanced at him a couple of times, but the man seemed content to wait for him to finish up.

“Uh, do I need to do something?”

“Hm?”

“I just…you’re…” Peter gestured vaguely to his presence, not wanting to say _hovering_ , but that was certainly the word for it. The Captain had not taken more than a cursory interest in him before. He had a professional interest in continuing his development as an Avenger, but never a _personal_ one.

“Oh,” Steve said. “Right. Sorry. Standing around. Look. Peter. I know you said you just want to move past everything that’s happened, and I understand that and I respect that, I really do, but… I’m having trouble ignoring the fact that I’m your stepfather. And I know you don’t see it that way. I know Tony’s a stranger to you, and I’m even more so—”

“Actually I know you better than I know him, so.”

“—right. My point is…well, I’d like to get to know you better. And I know—eventually, if you want him there, I know Tony will want to be part of your life as well, as a father, if that’s ever something you’d want. Even if neither of you are ready for that right now. But I understand if you’d rather keep everything professional, Peter, I do,” Steve finished. Peter chewed the inside of his lip a bit. _Was_ that something he wanted? He liked Steve. Steve was nice, and Steve was _good_. Steve was like Uncle Ben—good at heart, always wanting to do the right thing. And at that moment his heart ached for his Uncle, a wound still fresh and bleeding opening up again. Steve shifted to his other foot.

“Well, I was just—I was headed to the gym. Thought I might shoot some hoops. It’s not often I’ve got a partner who’s an actual challenge, if you wanted to come,” he offered. Peter found himself nodding before he even knew what he was doing.

“Sure,” he agreed. Steve lit up.

“Great! You know, I wonder if one of these days I can find enough SHIELD agents to get a baseball team together.”

“You’re into baseball?”

“It’s the great American game, of course I’m into baseball.”

“Who d’you think’s going to the Series this year?”

“Well, it all depends…”

And so their day continued.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_November 23, 1998_

_“Tony. Tony,” Mary said._

_“What?” Tony snapped. Mary just raised an eyebrow and put a hand on her hip._

_“You’ve been fiddling with that—what even is that?—whatever that is for the past three days, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t stopped working on it for about twenty hours now,” Mary said. She took the little bot out of his hand._

_“Wh—hey!” Tony complained._

_“It’s seven in the morning. Stop_ tinkering _. Stop_ fiddling _. Take a shower, get something to eat, and go to bed, Tony,” Mary commanded him firmly._

_“But…”_

_“If you’re in bed in an hour, I’ll be there with you,” Mary said with a coy smile. Tony pushed his stool out from under the desk and stood up._

_“Wow, look at the time, I should really take a shower and get something to eat,” he said. Mary laughed. Tony loved that laugh. He loved how it lit up her whole face, how the corners of her eyes would crinkle and her shoulders would shake. He grinned and leaned down to kiss her. She kissed back for a moment but then shoved him off._

_“You smell. Shower,” Mary said, wrinkling her nose comically._

_“Fine, fine, shower,” Tony agreed._

Tony couldn’t concentrate in his meeting. Well, he could rarely concentrate in meetings. Meetings were an unusually cruel punishment devised by vindictive PAs-turned-CEOs. But in this meeting in particular, his mind was stuck in the late 90s, puzzling through old memories, re-contextualizing the last things he remembered about Mary Fitzegerald.

 

_It wasn’t until he got in the shower that he realized how exhausted he was. The heat soothed his muscles and relaxed him, and he was a little bit afraid of sinking to his butt and sleeping then and there, so as soon as he’d gotten the engine grease off of his body and out of his hair, he shut the water off and dried off. He put on a robe and headed into the bedroom. Mary was already in bed, dressed in a silky but tasteful nightgown. She was reading a book—something on multiverse theory, Tony wasn’t really sure. Beside her on the bed was a plate with a sandwich on top. She glanced up at him briefly._

_“I didn’t think you’d have the willpower to make something yourself and god forbid you keep living off twinkies,” Mary said. Tony smiled as he got into bed beside her, grabbing the sandwich and taking a bite._

_“If I want to live off twinkies, I can live off twinkies. I’m a grown man,” Tony said. Mary poked him in the stomach._

_“Yup, you’re a grown man. You’re pushing thirty. Better watch that twinkie consumption,” Mary said._

_“I’m offended,” Tony said. “My physique is nothing less than perfect.”_

_“Hmm,” Mary said noncommittally. Tony put the sandwich down on the bedside table._

_“Oh, you think it’s less than perfect?” he teased, rolling half over her. She started to smile, though she tried to keep it down in favor of her unimpressed expression. “It leaves something to be desired?”_

_“Hmm,” Mary repeated. He kissed her neck and she giggled._

_“Maybe,” he said, and then kissed her again, kissing her neck between every word he said, “you—just—need—to see—it—again.”_

 

She had been sweet. She had been flirty. She had been so, so very intelligent. Supposedly she’d gone to school for business management, but looking back Tony wondered if that wasn’t just her cover, the qualification to get her the job at SI. Tony wondered if she’d really gone for physics or engineering or something in the sciences. She understood it well enough. Certain fields she’d understood better than he did.

 

_He’d kissed his way up to her lips by then and pulled her into a deep, romantic kiss. She laughed again and pulled away._

_“Tony, I said I’d be in bed with you, but you need to sleep. Eat first, sleep second—” Mary stopped speaking abruptly. She got out from underneath Tony and the covers, slipped off the bed, and hurried to the bathroom._

_“Mary?” Tony called after her. A moment later he heard retching sounds, and he rushed to the toilet. He held up her hair and rubbed her back soothingly until she was finished._

_“Ugh,” she said. “I need a toothbrush.”_

_“Honey, are you ok? Are you going to be sick again?” Tony asked as he helped Mary stand back up. She shook her head._

_“No, I’m fine, I think it…it must have been something I ate,” she said, moving to the sink to brush her teeth. She looked a bit pale and clammy, a few strands of her short, brown hair clinging to the sweat on her forehead. She shot him a smile. “Go back to bed, Tony. You probably don’t want to eat anymore, but at least get some rest. I’m sorry, sweetie.”_

 

Something she ate. There was always an excuse, that last month. Tony should have seen the pattern. Tony should have used his _brain_. Something she _ate_. Why hadn’t she told him? Why didn’t she say anything? Tony knew, thinking back on that look, that pale, anxious face, that she _knew_. She knew it hadn’t been something she ate. So why hadn’t she _told_ him?

Of course, Tony knew why. Tony knew why she hadn’t told him every time he thought about it. It wasn’t a hard puzzle to piece together. But his brain still rebelled against the idea of sweet Mary Fitzgerald taking away a horrible judgment of him and staying silent. Even if the judgment was warranted. He’d thought she knew him better than that. But he’d thought so many things.

_“Don’t apologize,” Tony said. “You should come lie down when you’re finished.” Mary just nodded, and Tony headed back to the bed, plopping himself down. He was half-asleep by the time Mary came back and slipped in beside him, laying her head on his chest. She curled her hands in his._

_“Tony?” she asked softly._

_“Hmm?” Tony replied, incapable of doing little else._

_“I just…I want you to know that I love you,” she said. Tony’s eyes snapped wide open. She put a finger to his lips. “I don’t expect you to say it back. I just wanted you to know. No matter what happens, I love you.”_

_Tony didn’t say it then. Couldn’t say it then. That was ok. She didn’t expect him to, really and truly she didn’t. And that was, in fact, the very reason why he loved her, too._

_Months later, he would be vindictively glad that he hadn’t said it._

_Years later, he would regret it._

 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

            “No, the Dodgers are better.”

            “They’re not even from New York! How can you say that?”

            “They started out as the _Brooklyn_ Dodgers. They’re from New York.”

            “Uh, New York from a _billion_ years ago.”

            “It wasn’t _a billion_ years ago, they were only moved to California in ’57.”

            “Yeah. A _billion_ years ago.”

            “Ugh.”           

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Steve walked in the door, his hair wet from a shower and his cheeks still flushed from a good workout. He smiled at Tony as he went to the fridge and got out a bottle of chocolate milk.

            “Hey Tony,” he said. “How was work?” Tony sat in the living room, still going over information on his tablet.

            “I nearly throttled one of our Japanese suppliers so, fun,” Tony said flatly. Steve frowned. He went and sat beside Tony. Tony for once couldn’t take comfort in his presence. Steve put an arm around him.

            “Hey, what’s wrong, Tony?” Steve asked.

            “Nothing,” Tony said. “Everything. Fuck, I don’t know.” He put aside the tablet and leaned his head back on the couch. “I can’t stop thinking about Mary Fitzgerald.”

            “Oh,” Steve said, going still.

            “Not like _that_ , Steve, Jesus, I’m not still carrying a torch for the woman,” Tony said. He shook his head and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I just keep thinking about those last months. I should have realized she was pregnant. She was getting sick all the time. First it was because of something she ate, then she was maybe coming down with the flu, then it was motion sickness from the plane, then it was…excuses, excuses, excuses. She was pregnant and I should have known. And I can’t help but wonder—I can’t help but wonder if she let me catch her finding those plans.”

            “Why would she do that, Tony?” Steve asked as Tony removed his hands and opened his eyes.

            “Because she knew that getting fired would be the only way to get away from me without me ever finding out about her pregnancy,” Tony murmured. “What if—Christ, Steve, what if I was such a horrible person the very _thought_ of me finding out that she was pregnant drove her away?” Tony felt his husband’s hand run through his hair, soothing.

            “Or what if you finding those plans was _never_ a part of her plan?”

            “Then I still drove her away. She should have told me. She should have told me then, should have told me the whole truth, that she was a SHIELD agent, that she was pregnant—but she didn’t. And that…that says _a lot_ , Steve. I mean, I’m not parent material. I’m not. Never have been. But she didn’t even—she didn’t even want to give me that chance. She didn’t want to give me that chance because she _knew_ I’d fuck him up somehow. She died, Steve. She died, and she willed the kid to her husband’s brother and wife rather than let me be his guardian. She took that secret to her _grave_ , Steve. She—” Tony was pulled fully into Steve’s arms, and he clung to his husband like he was his lifeline. He really was.

            “You don’t know what was going through her head, Tony,” Steve said soothingly. “And you were a different man, then. That was before Iron Man. That was—she died at the _height_ of your party days, Tony. She couldn’t know that you’d calm down, that you’d get through it. Tony, you’re a _good person_. It’s not your fault if she couldn’t see that.”

            “Isn’t it though?” Tony murmured into his husband’s shoulder. “Fuck, Steve, it’s over eighteen years after the fact and I’m still not able to handle this.”

            “You’ll get there,” Steve assured him. “You’ll get there.”

            Tony was not so sure.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “So what war were you in, anyway?”

            “World War Two.”

            “Ok, yeah, haha, the Second World War—but really, which one? Afghanistan?”

            “…World War Two.”

            “You’d have to be like a hundred years old for that, Steve.”

            “Well, I crashed in the Arctic and the ice sent me into cryo-sleep—”

            “Ok, that’s funny, haha, I get it, don’t ask about the military stuff.”

            “No, seriously!”

            “Ok, Steve. Sure.”

            “My birthday is July 4, 1913.            “

            “Fourth of July? Come _on_ Steve.”

            “I’m not kidding!”

            “Uh-huh.”

            “I’m _not!_ ”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            A month after Peter’s return to the team, the Kree and Skrulls invaded New York, not so much as to take over New York as to stage their latest battle there. Peter was fuzzy on the details. That might have something to do with the blow to the head he sustained. After a week in the hospital (even with his super healing), Peter was back up and in the game, though he noticed that most of the team treated him a bit more…gingerly during sparring.

            “I don’t want you to reinjure your head, Peter,” Steve said when Peter complained that he was going easy on him. “A concussion is a serious matter.”

            “But I have _super_ healing.”

            “Yeah well, unless you’re immortal we’re going to take it easy for a while.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “Hey, Steve.”

            “Shhh.”

            “ _Steve_.”

            “Shush, Peter.”

            “This movie’s really boring though.”

            “Do you want to leave the theatre?”

            “…Noooo.”

            “Then shush.”

            Peter got a face full of popcorn the next time he whined.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “You should try talking to him Tony,” Steve said. His husband grunted in response. “ _Tony_.”

            “I’m _working_ , Steve,” Tony grumbled.

            “If you’re not working you’re fighting, showering, eating, sleeping, or having sex, so pardon me for not trying to bring it up in any of those other situations,” Steve retorted. “I could come back when you stop for a sandwich but there’s no guaranteeing you’re actually going to _stop_ to eat, so… Tony come on. Be serious here.”

            “I am being serious! I’m seriously working and you are being seriously distracting! I’m the one holding down a job in _addition_ to being on the Avengers. I’m still head of R &D and the major shareholder in the company even if I’m not CEO so I have a _few_ fucking things to do and I don’t need you bothering me right now,” Tony snapped. Steve felt a spark of anger well up from inside of him. He pushed it down as calmly as he could. He stood up from his chair.

            “You don’t always have to be such an _ass_ , Tony,” Steve said. He started to walk away, but something was pulling him back, an itch he just couldn’t help but scratch. He turned back around. “You know, I’m just trying to help you, and that _kid_ who is your _son_. Because right now you are avoiding _every_ obligation you have to him—”

            “ _What_ obligation, Steve?” Tony demanded. “He’s _eighteen_. He’s an _adult_. I’m pretty damn sure he can handle himself, so where do you get off lecturing me about it? You want to hang out with webhead, you go right ahead. But he’s not a _child_ , Steve, and I don’t have any _obligation_ to—”

            “Yes you _do!_ ” Steve argued. “How can you be so callous about this, like he means nothing to you? He’s not just another teammate, Tony. _Blood is thicker than water_.”

            “The full saying is ‘blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’ i.e. blood doesn’t _matter_ , Capsicle. It’s shared _experience_ that matters. If a kid gets adopted, who are his real parents? The ones that gave birth to him or the ones that raised him?” Tony asked.

            “He’s still your son, Tony,” Steve said gravely. “And I’m disappointed in you right now.”

            “Oh, here we go, with that passive-aggressive, ‘disappointed in you’ _bull shit_ —oh, yeah, fine, just walk away, good, you know what, because you’re _distracting me_ anyway.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “Steve’s not allowed to play Trivial Pursuit again. He’s _over_ a hundred years old, it’s cheating,” Peter whined.

            “You’re forgetting the tiny fact that I was _frozen_ for about seventy of those hundred years. I’d say having a gap in pop culture from 1945 to 2012 is a sufficient handicap for being ancient,” Steve pointed out.

            “No, Steve, the kid’s right. You’re unfairly good at this. Next time we’re playing monopoly. Watch out for Natasha though, she’ll steal your money when you go to the bathroom,” Clint said.

            “Shut up, Clint,” said Natasha.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            It was two months after Peter’s reintroduction to the team or, surprisingly, mid-May, when Peter got caught by a villain on his own. He ended up taking out Electro by himself, but not before some serious damage had been done to Manhattan. The Captain wasn’t happy. Fury wasn’t happy. Peter wasn’t happy. It was all around a not-good day.

            But even after getting raked across the coals for an hour by the Director and his team leader for irresponsible and reckless behavior, Steve still came up to him afterwards, clapped him on the shoulder, and invited him to go see a ball game with him in a week.

            “Aren’t you pissed at me?” Peter asked, incredulous. Steve smiled, a little tightly, but his eyes were kind.

            “Yes. Unbelievably. As your team leader. But Tony and I—we try to keep work and family separate. Or as separate as possible. If we didn’t, we’d have throttled each other by now. So, Sunday?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            “Y’know, I didn’t want to say anything, because I know you guys are just getting to know each other and all,” Clint said, moving his boot five spaces and landing on one of Natasha’s properties—covered, of course, in hotels. She gave him a triumphant grin as he forked over his cash (none of those strange, credit-card-wielding electronic versions for the Avengers; everyone pretended that Steve wouldn’t be able to handle it, despite his proven ability to hack into secure government networks, in order to stay firmly rooted in the past where cheating was easier) before turning back to Steve and Peter. “But, you guys realize—uh, how do I put this—ok, you’re always hanging out together. Just the two of you. Alone. It looks…not to _me_ , ok, not to anybody who _knows_ the two of you, but I’m just saying, it _looks_ a little bit like a creepy affair.”

            “Eeeeew, Clint you’re _sick_ , man,” Peter said, horrified. “He’s married to my _father_!” Steve didn’t even speak. His expression of utter disgust spoke volumes enough.

            “I _know_ , and I’m saying, from the outside, it kind of sort of looks like some creepy semi-incestuous love affair,” Clint said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “Just putting it out there.”

            “Tasha?” Steve asked.

            “He’s got a point,” Natasha agreed. “Also you now owe me five hundred dollars, cough it up.” Steve wrinkled his nose and handed over the money.

            “Well, I can assure you that’s _not_ what’s going on,” Steve said firmly.

            “I said I knew it wasn’t!” Clint protested. “I’m just—I’m just saying, y’know, maybe you should start including _Tony_ in your little outings? Just a thought.” Steve’s expression dimmed from vivid disgust to sad contemplation. Peter’s expression darkened briefly, then blanked.

            Clint figured he might want to shut up now.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

           

            “So apparently I’m having a semi-incestuous love affair, according to Clint,” Steve said, biting into an apple.

            “ _What_?” Tony asked, completely horrified and baffled.

            “He says that’s what it looks like. Because you don’t hang out with us,” Steve said solemnly. “Semi-incestuous love affair. I’d add to that semi-pedophilic because Peter, while legal, is still a teenager. So there you go. Don’t you want to save your husband from the eyes of the judging public?”

            “You’re being ridiculous,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. Steve met them and held them as Tony stilled.

            “So are you.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

           

            It was mid-June and the day of Peter’s graduation when Iron Man and Spider-Man got locked in an underground disaster bunker. Peter was getting really sick of this whole ‘prepare for the zombie apocalypse thing’ since it had, apparently, caught on with the villains too.

            “It’s like a _tomb_ in here,” Peter complained, still tugging at the door handle like that would do any good.

            “A tomb with fresh water and at least a two year supply of canned goods,” Iron Man pointed out. Peter could swear he could _hear_ Stark’s eyes rolling from behind that faceplate.

            “Why haven’t they _found_ us yet?” Peter asked.

            “Can’t get a signal. This place must be lined with lead or something similar,” Iron Man said.

            “Can’t you bust us out of here with those repulsors? Rip the door off its hinges?”

            “Ok, A) my repulsors are not hot enough to cut through _that_ much metal and I’m out of laser charges, B) that is a _vault_ door, no I cannot just rip it off its hinges anymore than you can, webhead,” Iron Man retorted. Peter groaned and sunk to the ground.

            “Fuck. What time is it?” he asked.

            “Almost ten o’clock. Why?”

            “My graduation’s at ten. Aunt May’s going to kill me,” Peter said. He ripped off his mask. It was too hot to keep wearing it, and he didn’t see any security cameras. He hoped the bunker was at least well ventilated enough to keep them alive.

            “I’m sure she’ll understand. We’ve got bigger problems,” Iron Man said.

            “ _Bigger_ problems? Aunt May’s throwing an _open house_. She’s been cooking for ages to make enough for everybody. This was supposed to be a big deal and I’m not even going to be there. She’s going to be so heartbroken. I don’t have bigger problems right now, Doctor Doom and all his minions can go stuff it,” Peter said, running a hand through his flat hair.

            The bunker was silent. Silent as a tomb.

            _God damn, Peter. Stop thinking about tombs. You’re going to freak yourself out._

“I’m sure they’ll find us soon,” Iron Man said.

            “Liar,” Peter said, grouchy as he was. “It’ll be hours before they figure it out. We’re stuck down here, and Aunt May’s going to be sad and then she’s going to kill me and _God_ , I’m the worst nephew ever.”

            “You had to know stuff like this would happen once you put on that suit,” Iron Man said. It was reasonable, but it still irked Peter. “You risk your life everyday. One day you might go back to your Aunt in a body bag.”

            “I guess,” Peter acquiesced, but he wasn’t happy about it. It was probably about twenty minutes before either of them spoke again.

            “So why did you do it, anyway?” Iron Man asked.

            “Do _what_ Mr. Non Sequitur?” Peter asked. He was still grumpy. He was sweating now from the heat. He felt like he was baking.

            “Sew yourself a spandex super suit and start swinging through the air like a maniac,” Iron Man clarified. “You became genetically altered, but that didn’t predestine you to this point.”

            “Hell, maybe it did, who knows?” Peter asked. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t start out in this suit. I was looking for the guy who killed my Uncle. I ended up—uh—roughing up some…ruffians. But they knew my face. They could provide a description to the police. So I put on a mask. And then it just…it kind of spiraled. I wasn’t a hero. I was just looking for revenge. And then when Doc Connors went crazy—I had some responsibility in that. Long story. So really I was just covering my own ass. I do a lot of that, I guess. Then after—I mean, yeah, after Doc Connors I started taking down more criminals just because. But I’ve never really stopped looking for that guy. Even now. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever find him.”

            There was silence again. A few boiling, uncomfortable minutes passed. Peter narrowed his eyes.

            “How the hell are you staying cool inside that tin can anyway? You should be roasting alive,” Peter said.

            “A/C,” Iron Man explained.

            “Aw, fuck you,” Peter whined. “It’s like a sauna in—we’re underground.”

            “Fantastic deduction, Sherlock, I think you’ve solved the case,” Iron Man said sarcastically, but Peter stood, excited.

            “No, no—it’s—we’re _underground_. There’s no natural _light_ down here. And unless there’s a geothermal heating system in this place, or a radiator or something, that means there’s some kind of ventilation pumping the hot air from the _surface_ down to here. And if there’s a _ventilation_ system—”

            “There might be air ducts. There might be a way out,” Iron Man finished, following his logic.

            “ _Exactly_.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            It took them fifteen more minutes to uncover the ventilation system. It took Peter less than ten to crawl through the air ducts to the surface. Sticky hands and feet came in handy. Doctor Doom and his friends had, in fact, already been apprehended by the other Avengers—they’d just been mute on Tony and Peter’s location, but once Peter was out it wasn’t long before they managed to release Tony from the bunker.

            Peter was sweaty and disgusting, but he managed to show up at graduation just in time to walk across the stage and get his diploma. Aunt May suffered no heartbreak, and for once, all was well. Well, all was well with Peter, anyway.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Tony Stark was not an alcoholic. This was an actual statement of fact: he was _not_ an alcoholic. Tony Stark enjoyed drinking. Tony Stark had the inadvisable tendency to self-medicate, but he was _not_ an alcoholic. If he had ever been on that path, Iron Man had thrown him right off of it, and then Steve had derailed him for good. However, as previously stated, he _did_ still have the unfortunate tendency to self-medicate from time to time. Which was why when Steve got back from briefing Fury on the Doom situation, he found Tony with a drink in his hand.

            Tony wasn’t sure if he’d _meant_ for Steve to find him with a drink or not. Because he would know, as Tony knew by his face that he did, that Tony with a drink in his hand at four in the afternoon signified something _not good_. Tony didn’t know if he’d _meant_ for Steve to find him like that, slumped on the couch and drinking rum (not from the bottle, no, Tony was classier than that. The bottle, half-empty already, was set on the table, next to where his glass was whenever it left his hands) as an _Avengers_ cartoon played.

Tony always found it very strange that they had cartoons of their own lives, little cartoon Tony and cartoon Steve. The creators didn’t know much about them, personally, other than the little that they had gleaned from a meeting with them at the beginning of the project. Apparently, however, from that little meeting they had gleaned not a little but a _lot_. They were all toned down versions of themselves, wiped clean for a child audience, but Clint was still a smart mouth, Natasha was still terrifying, Bruce was still a quiet scientist, and Steve and Tony were still obviously quite close. It was their lives, washed clean and Disney-fied.

            Recently, the cartoon creators had added in a Spider-Man. His likeness to Peter was impressive; somehow, despite never having seen his face, they’d correctly guessed at many of his features. He still had brown hair and eyes, was still a scrawny white high school boy. They focused a lot on his life. Most of his battles occurred _at school_ if they were separate from the rest of the cartoon Avengers. He fought bullies in his down time as Matt Morris, his secret identity as a comics geek. He juggled school and the Avengers and trying to keep his secret life secret from the likes of his best friends, MJ Watson and Harry Osmond, as well as his parents at home. He was painted as the rookie of the team of Avengers, always screwing up but managing to fix his mistakes in the end. Tony wondered if the suggestion of incompetence irritated Peter. He wondered if Peter watched the show at all. He wondered what he’d have to say about his Disney version, a version with all the complexities of their personal lives wiped away, with all the darker origins of their hero tales conveniently glossed over. Tony wondered. Tony drank.

            Steve’s Disney counterpart was, hilariously, still very much like Steve. There were a few things incorrect, but for the most part they had captured his likeness perfectly. Disney Cartoon Steve retained his dry wit, his sneaky intelligence, and his immovable moral fiber. He gave rousing speeches to bring the gang all together and managed to lead his team to victory even in the most unlikely of circumstances. But even Steve was cleansed for the audience—his jokes were never dirty or vulgar, his intentions never anything but friendly, his quick temper was nonexistent. Tony wondered what Steve thought about his Disney counterpart. Conveniently, this was precisely what Tony was wondering as Steve walked in the door and took in the sight of his husband drinking and watching cartoons of themselves. Having a Steve at hand and no brain-to-mouth filter to speak of, Tony voiced his thoughts.

            “What do you think of Disney Steve?” Tony asked. Although it probably sounded less articulate than that. Steve’s frown was a bit of an indication.

            “Tony,” Steve said gently, sinking into the couch beside him and gently prying the glass out of his hand. “Tony, why are you drinking? What’s wrong, Tony?”

            “He’s pretty much you still. Except not gay. Or probably. He still acts pretty gay towards Disney Tony, don’t you think?” Tony continued blithely.

            “Tony, honey, it’s a cartoon,” Steve said. “It has writers. It’s scripted. By people who met us all _once_. Ignore the cartoon—talk to me.” Steve’s big, warm hand was on his shoulder, and those baby blues of his were trained on Tony exclusively.

            “Your eyes are really pretty,” Tony said. Steve sighed.

            “Tony, you’re not that drunk yet. I know you know what I’m asking you,” he said.

            “D’you think, when Disney Tony finds out Matt Morris is his son he’ll ignore him for six months and hope he goes away?” Tony asked.

            “Oh, Tony.”

            “’Cause I don’t think so. I think Disney Tony will be really excited about it. I think Disney Tony’ll take the kid on a tour around the labs. I think he’ll pay for Matt’s college and help him build jet packs and cool gear for Spider-Man. I think he’ll take him on trips to the zoo and they’ll live fucking happily ever after,” Tony said.

            “Peter doesn’t need someone to pay his tuition—for one thing he has a full scholarship. Peter doesn’t need jet packs, Tony, or cool gear, or even a tour of the lab,” Steve said softly. “He doesn’t need a trip to the zoo. He’s nineteen on Thursday. He just needs _you_.” Tony just groaned.

            “Nineteen? _Nineteen_? It’s the kid’s fucking _birthday_ on Thursday? Ugh,” tony said. He reached for the glass but Steve caught his wrist. Tony looked at him, feeling more raw and open than he had in a very long time. “Nineteen years and I’ve fucked every last one of them up as a father.”

            “You didn’t _know_ Tony. Six months, I’ll give you. Six months you haven’t handled…the best that you could have. But it’s not _too late_ , Tony. It’s not too late,” Steve said soothingly. Tony found himself leaning on Steve. Tony often found himself leaning on Steve.

            “What if I fuck it up worse?” he mumbled. “What if—what if what I’ve _been_ doing is less awful than what I might do?” Steve’s fingers lifted his chin until Tony was forced to meet his eyes.

            “You won’t.”

            “But what if—”

            “You won’t, Tony. I have faith in you. You should have some in yourself.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Something had to change. Of that, Tony was entirely certain. He wasn’t sure _what_ exactly had changed in him to get to this point. Perhaps it was Peter’s utter sincerity in wanting to walk at graduation for his Aunt, or perhaps it was his own revelation of his ‘origin’ story as it were—a story that, when painted from Peter’s perspective, looked a lot closer to a super villain’s origin than a super hero’s. Perhaps it was the self-deprecation Tony hadn’t seen before. Perhaps it was the pure heart Tony caught a glimpse of. Whatever it had been, those words had slipped past the armor of the Iron Man, and Tony for the first time saw Peter Parker not as Spider-Man, not as a at least semi-capable adult, but as a little boy still struggling through the world and battling demons similar to those Tony himself had fought.

            And in that moment, Tony had realized Steve was right. He _did_ have an obligation to this boy. But it went deeper than that. Something vibrated in his bones and stirred in his blood, something for which Tony had no specific name. He did not admit that it was love or caring. Not to himself and not to anyone else. But there it was—perhaps there it had always been—whether he acknowledged it or not. For the moment, Tony recognized only a deep sense of obligation. But that was enough to get him moving.

            Still, Tony had no idea _how_ to change. He considered several approaches. Should he just show up to one of Steve and Peter’s little bonding sessions? Should he join in on Monopoly or baseball? Or should he set something aside? Should he call him? Should he grab him in person sometime when he knew he’d be at the Triskelion? Should he just text him? Tony was at a loss as to how to move forward, and come Thursday he still had no ideas. Should he send him a gift? Well, giant custom rabbits were out. Maybe other things were, too. Did Tony even have a proper gauge for what was an ‘appropriate’ and ‘inappropriate’ gift for the nineteen-year-old son he hadn’t known he had and then promptly ignored? Would _anything_ be appropriate?

            Well, Tony figured, maybe not. But maybe a simple “happy birthday” would be all right. He’d fully planned to call the boy, say his piece and be done with it, but as it turned out, criminals did not stop crime even on an Avenger’s birthday. So Steve, Tony, Clint, Natasha, Peter, Thor, Bruce and about a dozen SHIELD agents ended up downtown that day fighting off a bunch of wonky-Extremis infected people. It had been four years since he’d seen that particular mutation of the virus, and Tony was not pleased to see its return. Nor was anyone else.

            There were a few minor explosions causing injuries. Three SHIELD agents died. The Hulk discovered he really did not like hot things, and Steve discovered that Vibranium _does_ have a melting point. Tony would have to fix the shield later—Steve looked like someone had cut off his arm or murdered his dog or both. There was one larger explosion from an Extremis-infected person who went too hot, who ‘couldn’t regulate’. They had been inside an apartment building, and the top ten floors were affected.

            The Avengers worked to pull out survivors as firemen joined them, putting out the fire as best they could. When the smoke settled, it was time for search and recover—not rescue, of course. Anyone left in the building was certainly dead. It was four in the afternoon.

            “Apartment 23B! Please! Please can anyone tell me about Apartment 23B!” the Avengers had gathered with the firemen, discussing the best way to go about recovering the bodies. Behind the stanchions, a young girl, her cheeks streaked with tears, yelled to them and the firemen. She was probably only fifteen or sixteen. Her black hair was streaked with pink and blue. She wore a leather jacket and a leather mini-skirt and fishnets and thigh-high boots. She was the picture of rebellion—or she would be if it weren’t for the tears running down her face. Panicked and desperate, she looked only like a frightened little girl, not a teenage rebel. A firefighter went over to keep her behind the barriers.

            “Please! Please, someone, anyone, does anybody know about Apartment 23B? My dad stayed home today, _please_ ,” she shouted. The firefighter tried to keep her calm. Spider-Man, though, had been watching her. He walked away.

            “Spider-Man, where are you going?” the Captain asked. Spider-Man didn’t answer. He went up to the girl. He spoke a few words to her, then rushed into the building.

            “Spider-Man! We don’t know which parts of the building are still structurally sound!” Steve shouted into his comm.. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

            “I’m checking on 23B,” Peter’s voice returned, sounding more solemn than Tony had ever heard it.

            “We will _get_ there, Spider-Man,” the Captain said. “Get back down here!”

            “He might have been out. He might have gone to the grocery store or—look every minute that girl waits, not knowing, it’s _agony_ ,” Peter said through the comm.. Steve said nothing in return. A few moments later, a heavy sigh came through.

            “No. He was home. He’s gone. I’ll tell her,” Peter said. The Captain went back to their strategizing, but Tony wasn’t paying attention. A moment later Spider-Man appeared again, having jumped out a window. His web slowed his descent, and once he was on the ground he headed straight to the young girl, the girl who waited with held breath and clasped hands, eyes shining with unshed tears. When he got close, he shook his head and spoke a few words, and the floodgates opened. The girl nearly fell to the ground—she probably would have, were it not for a neighbor holding her up. Spider-Man, after a few moments, left her to the care of the people from the building, and returned to his post with the Avengers. He stood unnaturally still. Spider-Man was always fidgeting, always moving. Stillness was for Steve, not for Peter.

            “You ok, kid?” Iron Man asked.

            “Fine,” Spider-Man replied.

            Tony didn’t believe it for a minute.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

As soon as he was dismissed, Peter changed back into civilian clothes and went to the nearest florist. He bought three bouquets of white lilies and walked four blocks to the cemetery.

            Well, Peter supposed the cemetery had a name, but to him it was just _the_ cemetery. It was the cemetery where his parents were buried, and where his Uncle was buried. It was the only cemetery that mattered to Peter. It might as well have been the only cemetery in existence, carrying with it all the grief of all the ages, haunted by memories forever incomplete.  
           

He visited his parents first. He set lilies on each of their graves. He said a mental hello. He gave a mental apology for not having visited in a while. He thought about Tony Stark, and told his mother that yes, he knew. He thanked Richard Parker for loving him anyway, for being his dad without hesitation or resentment. At least, none that Peter ever noticed.

            He visited Uncle Ben. He thanked _him_ for being a dad, too. He thanked him for everything he’d ever taught him. He wished he could be there to teach him more. He thanked him for taking in a nephew who he knew was not a nephew by blood. He thanked him for realizing that blood wasn’t everything.

            And then Peter stood there. He stood there and stared at Uncle Ben’s headstone. It wasn’t like headstones in movies, standing up straight and rounded at the top. It was flat, and laid on the ground. The stone was grey, and inscribed with his name, his date of birth, his date of death, and what he had been to them. It could never encompass everything, though. It could never truly show what he _had_ been to them.

            Peter stared up at the sky. He wasn’t ready to go home yet. He didn’t want to go home yet. He’d texted Aunt May not to wait up for him, not to worry, but he wondered if she would, anyway. The sun had gone down and the sky was dark, and Peter had been standing in the cemetery for a very long time.

            He wished he could talk to Uncle Ben. He would ask him what to do about Tony Stark. Was there anything _to_ be done? It was clear the man didn’t want anything to do with him. And for that matter, did _Peter_ want anything to do with _Tony_?

            Yes, Peter could admit. He was curious. He’d liked the man before he’d met him, admired him for the Iron Man and for his genius if for nothing else. He wanted to know the man _behind_ Iron Man more than anything. And if Peter admitted it to himself, even if the guy was a bit of an asshole, he desperately wanted his approval.

            Peter sighed. That was pretty messed up. What was Tony Stark anyway, except some guy who shared his DNA? Why did it matter? Peter couldn’t answer that question. He only knew that it _did_. He knew that it did, and that ignoring it only made it worse. Ignoring it only _felt_ worse. Ignoring it felt like rejection. Maybe it was.

            Peter looked back to Uncle Ben’s grave. He wondered what advice Uncle Ben would give him, but he couldn’t hear his voice in his head. Already it was fading. And nothing hurt Peter more than that.

            Peter really should have noticed the big, iron suit that landed on the ground next to him _before_ it landed on the ground, but he wasn’t really paying attention to his spidey sense. Or any of his senses, actually. So when that big, iron suit landed on the ground next to him, he jumped and then barely caught himself from swearing.

            “Holy—fudge, dude!” Peter shouted, staggering back. The faceplate on the Iron Man lifted.

            “Sorry. Thought you must have heard the repulsor sounds,” Tony apologized. Peter looked around, his eyebrows coming together in confusion.

            “How did you _find_ me?” he asked.

            “Uh, tracked your phone’s GPS,” Tony said.

            Peter raised his eyebrows.

            “Ok, in retrospect, maybe a bit not good,” Tony relented.

            “Yeah don’t…don’t do that,” Peter agreed, a tiny bit creeped out. “Unless I’m—you know, kidnapped or something to an evil villain’s lair.”

            “Noted,” Tony said shortly.

            There passed a moment of silence.

            “What are you doing here, Tony?” Peter asked.

            “You—you looked upset back there,” Tony said.

            “I had a mask on.”

            “You _sounded_ upset, you _seemed_ upset, don’t get too hung up on the verbs here, kid,” Tony said, waving an arm in exasperation.

            “It was an upsetting situation. Everybody was upset,” Peter said.

            “Yeah, well. We’re not all hanging out in a cemetery in the middle of the night, on our birthday, so.”

            Peter shrugged, turning his gaze back to the headstone. He’d brought flowers. It was the least he could do. He didn’t know _why_ he’d brought flowers, really. He didn’t believe in God, or even an afterlife, but it was a sign of respect. It was a sign that he had been loved, that there were still those who missed and remembered him. And maybe even if he couldn’t see it, Peter still wanted someone to.

            “Is this—your Dad?” Tony asked.

            “My uncle,” Peter corrected, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “Mom and Dad are over there.” Peter gestured in the direction of their graves. He could still see the bouquets of fresh lilies laid out on the ground from where they stood.

            “Right,” Tony said.

            Silence.

            “Look, kid, are you going to be ok?” Tony asked.

            “I’m fine. You can go,” Peter said. “I release you from whatever obligation brought you here in the first place.”

            “That’s not what I meant, Peter,” Tony said. He emerged from his suit, the armor opening up to release him before resealing itself as an empty shell, standing in wait for its master to return. It was odd. Peter hadn’t dealt much with Tony out of the suit, but there he was, dressed in a black tank and sweats, hands shoved in his pockets in a posture that seemed somehow familiar to Peter. His feet were bare on the wet grass. Peter looked away, towards his parents’ graves.

            “I’m fine. It just—it reminded me I hadn’t been here in a while, you know?” Peter said. Tony, thankfully, said nothing, and Peter, for some reason, found words pouring out of him. “And I just—you know, that girl probably woke up that morning and kissed her dad goodbye and never thought anything of it. She probably said ‘love you’ and ‘bye’ and left for school, and she had no idea what the rest of the day would bring, no idea that was the last time she’d ever see him. Or maybe not—maybe they fought that morning because her skirt was shorter than he thought was ok or because he didn’t like fishnets and she wanted to express herself or because he took the last toaster strudel and she hated cereal. All those stupid little things that—and you know, there’s no _resolving_ that. There’s no telling him now that all that petty crap never mattered, that she never meant it, it’s all just _hanging_ there, hanging there forever and there’s nothing she can do about it. And when she woke up this morning I bet she was just worried about her test in pre-calc.” Peter jammed his own hands in his pockets, tears prickling, barely held, behind his eyes. He wanted to shove them down, wanted to shove it all down, but for once he couldn’t.

            “I’ve never wanted to take a day back as badly as the day Uncle Ben died,” Peter said, his voice rough. “It was my fault. I don’t just mean that in like a, kid-blaming-themselves-for-something-unpreventable way, I mean it was _actually_ my fault. I was—I was so mad. I had a lot of stuff going on. Assholes at school, you know? And then the spider-bite. And then there was Gwen—and then there was Dr. Connors who, well, he knew my Dad—Richard Parker, I mean. And I didn’t know hardly anything about him or what had happened and I _wanted_ to. So I was helping him with his research, and I forgot to pick up my Aunt from her shift at work. And Uncle Ben was _mad_. I mean, he should have been mad. I was supposed to pick Aunt May up because Uncle Ben had to come in for a parent-teacher conference that day because I—well, I kind of destroyed the backboard of the basketball goal, but he was a little more upset about me, uh, humiliating this dude—he kind of deserved it but, anyway… and so he was mad and he told me—he told me that I was a lot like my father, that it was a good thing…I guess, I guess in hindsight he must have been talking about, you know, nurture over nature. And he said—he said Dad lived by a code. That he believed that if you could do good things for other people, you had a moral obligation to do those things.

            “And that just—it struck me. It really hit me. And I asked my Uncle Ben, I asked him where my Dad was. If he lived by a moral code why didn’t he think it was important enough to be there to tell me that himself? And I guess—in a lot of ways that was unfair. But I was—I didn’t want Uncle Ben lecturing me about my Dad.

“You know the last thing he ever said to me was, ‘be good.’ We’d been playing hide-and-seek that night. He used to do this thing where he’d set up dummies of himself—shoes beneath the curtain, or glasses on the table in a room he wasn’t hiding in. I went into the office to look for him and it was—it was _ransacked_. And I called for him and he searched through a drawer for a file. He got it and then picked me up and took me out of the room. My mom threw some things in a suitcase for me. She buttoned up my coat and they brought me to Uncle Ben and Aunt May. They _knew_. I don’t know what they knew, how much they knew, but I think they knew there was a chance they’d never see me again. Mom was crying as she said goodbye, told my Aunt how I liked to sleep with a night light on, before Dad pulled her away and they left.

“They left. And they were involved in—in something, and they knew the risks and even if it’s stupid and unfair it made me _angry_. Angry that they would leave me like that. Angry that Dad would do something that could get them killed, could put them in danger—probably because he felt like he had a _moral obligation_ to do something. So I just—I lost it when Uncle Ben brought it up. And I slammed the door and left the house and…

“I just wanted to cool off. I went down to a convenience store and got a thing of chocolate milk—or, tried to. I was two cents short, and the guy at the counter was making this huge big deal of it—I mean, it was two cents, come on, right? So I ended up leaving it. But the next guy to check out stole a bunch of cash from the register. He tossed me the milk on his way out. I took it, and I didn’t stop him when he ran. I could have. I had the power to. But I was _pissed_ at that _asshole_ at the counter. ‘Daddy didn’t give you enough milk money today?’ –fuck you, guy.

“And then later, I’m going through my phone. Uncle Ben’s looking for me, I’ve missed like five calls from him. It’s late. Aunt May’s probably worried. Uncle Ben’s probably worried. But I don’t pick up and I don’t go home. I hear a shot. I go to check it out and—there he was. He’d been out looking for me. By the time I got there it was too late. He bled out in front of me and there was nothing I could do.” Peter didn’t know when the tears had started flowing. He barely noticed them even as he spoke, just as he barely noticed the cold.

“You know what the worst part is in this whole fucked-up story? The police—later, they found witnesses, witnesses who had seen more than I had—and they said the guy who shot him had a tattoo of a star on his left wrist. I knew that description, because I’d seen him robbing the convenience store. A robbery I’d done nothing to stop. If I hadn’t let him go, if I’d done the right thing, Uncle Ben would still be alive. If I hadn’t been out that night, Uncle Ben would still be alive. If I’d just picked up my _damn phone_ he’d still be here. He’s dead because I was being a selfish asshole. And I can never take it back.” Peter just let the tears flow, a silent flood. He couldn’t stop them if he tried. And no matter how embarrassed he was to be spilling his guts out to a stranger who just _happened_ to be his father, too, he didn’t have a choice. It had all come tumbling out. The levies broke, the dam collapsed.

Tony Stark said nothing for a good long time. Peter was fine with the silence. It was better than awkward apologies, awkward condolences, insincere words of comfort. When he finally spoke, his speech was none of the above.

“I hated my father’s guts,” he said. “There was never any pleasing him, so eventually I gave up trying. He never said he loved me, I was pretty convinced he didn’t even _like_ me. In the hour before he died, I’d just got home from Cambridge, just graduated _suma cum laude_ from MIT. I decided to take a little time out to relax in the pool, work on a tan, whatever. And he was on my ass about doing something—already. I’d been home twelve hours. ‘ _Twelve hours is a lifetime, Tony_.’ I’d graduated _suma cum laude_ with my first doctorate at twenty-one and it still wasn’t enough. ‘ _Your level of intelligence does not always correspond to the level of your maturity, Tony_.’ Well, he got that right, anyway. So we were arguing, like we usually did. I still hate him. He’s dead, and I still hate him. I hate him for things he did, for things he didn’t do, for things he said or never did. But there’s still a lot of crap I wish I could say to him. There are still days I regret our last conversation. Can’t take it back though. Can’t take any of it back, neither of us can. I bet my old man had regrets, but he’s dead now, so, no fixing that.

“And I guess, as I’m standing here talking to you about _my_ shitty old man and you’re talking about your _good_ parents, your _dead_ parents, and things we’ll never get to say—I guess I’d be a moron if I didn’t say something. After all you and I share a dangerous profession—either one of us could die tomorrow. Hell, even if we didn’t it could happen. My parents died in a car crash. So I guess, if we’re not leaving stuff unsaid, I want to apologize for how big a dick I’ve been to you. Look, kids were never on my list. In fact, kids were actively _off_ my list. I’d be a shitty parent. I mean, obviously I’ve _been_ a shitty parent so, case in point. But you said you wanted things to just—just move on and I was all too willing to let that happen. Steve kept telling me that wasn’t ok. I didn’t want to listen. But as usual he was right.”

Peter watched Tony intently. The conversation had gone past weird, had gone past awkward. They’d hit a level of understanding, now.

“Look, kid— _Peter_. You’ve already had a Dad, and a fantastic Uncle. I don’t want to replace them. I can’t. And, as established, I’m not the parent type. But, uh, I’m willing to—to make this work. In whatever way you want. Because even if I’m not your dad, I’m your father, and that means something, whether we want it to or not. And you’re—you’re a great kid, Peter. You’re a _hero_. I know your dad and your uncle, they’d be proud of you. I know—even if I’ve got not right to be—I know _I_ am. So just—the door’s open, ok? And I mean that literally—whenever you want to come around, you’re welcome. Stark Tower—it’s as much your home as mine now, all right? As much or as little as you want from me—you’ve got it,” Tony said. He still stood apart from him, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweats. His expression was open but cautious, like he was afraid Peter was going to take Uncle Ben’s flowers and throw them in his face.

“Ok,” Peter said, for lack of any other words. Nothing would come to his mind, no words would form in his throat. Tony seemed satisfied with that anyway. Tony put a hand briefly on his shoulder before it fell away again. Tony looked at Uncle Ben’s grave.

“I know what the press says about me, but for what it’s worth I loved your mother,” he said.

Peter didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. They stood in silence—more comfortable now, until finally Tony straightened up.

“All right. It’s late and it’s freezing cold out here. My toes are about to turn black and fall off. I’m going back to the Tower and you should be getting back home, too. Do you need a ride?” Tony asked.

“No, I’m good,” Peter said. “I don’t live far from here.”

“Ok,” Tony said, stepping back into the Iron suit that swallowed him up whole. “I’m going to watch you go, though.” Peter raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Not the parent type, huh?” he asked. Tony put his faceplate down.

“Cut the sass and move your ass, Spider-Man,” Iron Man ordered. Peter smiled a little. He said a mental goodbye to Uncle Ben and his parents, and then walked out of the cemetery. When he looked back, Iron Man was still there, watching him go just as he’d promised. It wasn’t until Peter turned a corner out of sight that he saw Iron Man take to the sky. Peter smiled a little to himself as he walked home. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. It was a lot to process. His cheeks were still cold and still streaked with dried tears. But he knew that, after this moment, things wouldn’t be the same. And he was starting to think that that might be for the better.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Why _can’t_ I buy stock in Natasha’s hotels?” Tony demanded.

“Because that’s not how the game _works_ , Tony,” Steve said, rolling his eyes.

“That’s how _I_ played it as a kid. How can I create a monopoly if I can’t buy out my opponents?” Tony asked.

“You just have to work with the things you’ve already _bought_ , Tony. There are no stocks in Monopoly,” Steve said patiently.

“The economy and rules of this game are completely untenable. They make no sense at all,” Tony huffed.

“You’re only whining ‘cause you’re losing, Stark,” Clint said. Then he groaned. “God— _damn,_ Natasha you own half this board.”

“That I do. $2,000 please,” Natasha said, holding her hand out. Clint grumbled and searched through his pile for the appropriate bills.

“You are _ruthless_ ,” Tony said, admiring. “I shudder to think what you and Pepper would have accomplished together at SI.”

“World domination, probably,” Natasha said coolly. “I—who owns _this_?”

“Ha! That would be me. $200 please,” Peter said.

“Aw, that’s my boy, silently collecting all the trains and utilities. Look at this little vicious entrepreneur,” Tony said affectionately.

“Entrepreneur? It’s hardly a new business. Vicious railroad cartel, you mean,” Peter said. “You owe me too.”

“What?” Tony spluttered.

“Look where you just landed! One of my railroads.”

“I think, as your father, you shouldn’t charge me for riding the railroad.”

“There is no nepotism in my railroad cartel. $200 please.”

“Aw, come on Peter, I’m about to go _bankrupt_ , are you really going to put your own _father_ in the poorhouse?”

“That’s capitalism for you.”

“I think we’ve just seen a family go down in flames,” Clint said to Natasha.

“In the game of Monopoly you either win or you get so frustrated you flip the board and never speak to your friends again,” Natasha said.

“Or family! See if I ever give Spider-Man rocket boosters,” Tony grumbled.

“What would Spider-Man do with rocket boosters?” Peter asked.

“Be…rocket boosted places! I don’t know,” Tony huffed.

“Ok, you’re not allowed to watch Earth’s Mightiest Heroes or Ultimate Spider-Man anymore,” Steve said. “I hate to tell you this, but Peter’s web does not _actually_ function as a parachute.”

“Interesting idea though, really,” Peter said.

“Oh _come on_ , Natasha,” Clint whined as she took his last bit of cash.

“Just you and me now, Peter,” Natasha said, challenge in her voice.

“Nice knowing you, Peter,” Tony said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Can’t say I won’t watch from the sidelines with vindictive glee as your railroad cartel collapses.”

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve chastised.

“What? He bankrupted me!” Tony defended.

“There is only one winner!” Peter argued.

“Children. All of you. I’m going to win anyway.”

Everybody knew that, as usual, Natasha was right.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“College level English is haaaaard,” Peter complained, putting his face on his textbook as he sat at the kitchen table in Stark Tower.

“What’re you studying?” Tony asked, sitting down with a mug of coffee and his tablet. Peter’s face was still on his textbook when he answered.

“Shakespeare. The whole _course_ is on Shakespeare. I’m going to die.”

“His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own;/For he himself is subject to his birth:/He may not, as unvalued persons do,/Carve for himself; for on his choice depends/The safety and health of this whole state;/And therefore must his choice be circumscribed/Unto the voice and yielding of that body/Whereof he is the head,” Tony quoted.

“The fuck is that?” Peter grumbled into his textbook.

“ _Hamlet_ ,” Tony said. He sipped his coffee. “Dad used to quote it at me all the time. You pick it up after a while.”

“Your dad sounds like a real dick,” Peter mumbled.

“Yeah, well. I can join the club I guess,” Tony said.

“You’re not a dick.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. Peter raised his head.

“Ok, you’re a dick sometimes,” Peter qualified. “But I’m not putting you into the category of ‘dick’ overall.”

“I’m honored,” Tony said dryly.

“You’re also not helpful. What do you know about _King Lear_?”

“Not a fucking thing.”

Peter’s face ended up back on the textbook.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Steve. Steeeeeve. What do you know about Shakespeare?” Tony asked.

“Uh… ‘what light through yonder window breaks’ is about the extent of my knowledge on that subject,” Steve said. “I sketched through most of English.”

“Argh, you’re no use,” Tony said.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Hey, Natasha, do you know anything about Shakespeare?”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“So…the storm represents the state of the kingdom?” Peter asked.

“And Lear’s madness,” Tony added. “See here, Lear says it himself—‘the tempest in my mind’.”

“The curtains are _never_ just blue, are they?” Peter sighed.

“What?”

“Never mind. Keep going.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 “Didn’t drink enough coffee, huh?” Steve asked. Peter had fallen asleep on the couch, leaning up against Tony’s shoulder, book still open in his lap. “Shakespeare still?”

“Big exam tomorrow. _The Tempest,_ ” Tony explained as Steve took a seat next to him and handed him a mug of coffee. Tony took a sip. Decaf. Steve just smiled. “What?”

“And you’re not uncomfortable at all right now?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re perfectly happy to stay where you are?”

“Yeah, for a bit. Eventually he’ll have to go to bed, though, like, an actual bed or he’ll have the worst crick in his neck and I’m _not_ sitting here all night, but, yeah, for a bit. Why? Why are you smiling at me like that? Steve you look kind of crazy. Why are you _laughing?”_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

            Peter couldn’t believe it when his winter break finally rolled around. He’d lived through exams and his first semester of college—not to mention a couple of alien invasions. Those guys just couldn’t help themselves, apparently. It had been a _whirlwind_ year, one that Peter couldn’t quite believe had even happened. He stared out the great glass windows of the Stark Tower penthouse, taking in the view. Who knew, a year ago when he found those damning records, that a year later he’d be standing here, his father and stepfather making popcorn in the kitchen and arguing about _Dog Cops_. Peter cracked a bit of a smile. Who knew he’d ever really think of them as such?

            “What’s on your mind, kid?” Tony asked as he entered the room. He tossed him a coke. It was one of Tony’s favorite things to do, surprise him with a soda, because with Peter’s spidey-sense, he never failed to catch it even if he never even _saw_ Tony throw the soda.

            “Nothing,” Peter replied as Tony came to stand next to him. “Just—it’s been a crazy year. I’m glad I lived through finals. That’s, you know, partly down to you. Thanks for all that late night Shakespeare cramming.”

            “No problem,” Tony said. They looked out the window in companionable silence for a moment, enjoying the view. Peter knew why Tony liked the penthouse—he liked it for the same reason. It was like soaring through the city, this view.

            “Hey, Dad?”

            “Yeah?”

            Neither of them realized what Peter had said until a second after he said it. They both froze, deer in headlights. Neither of them knew what to do, what move to make. The pause stretched a little longer than was socially acceptable, but finally Peter gathered his wits about him. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

            “How about jet packs for Christmas?” Peter asked, and all tension was broken as Tony rolled his eyes and walked to the couch.

            “What is Spider-Man going to do with _jet packs_?”

            “Brag. Brag to _everyone_.”

            “Your webbing does not function as a parachute.”

            “Details, details.”

            “I thought there was a no-breaking-the-sound-barrier until you’re twenty-one rule in this house?” Steve asked as he entered the room with the popcorn.

            “What? When did _that_ become a thing?” Peter protested, plopping on the couch next to Tony.

            “Last Tuesday,” Tony said, stealing some popcorn out of the bowl as Steve joined them.

            “Well I never got that memo,” Peter grumbled, reaching across Tony to grab some popcorn.

            “Too bad,” Steve said. “What are we watching anyway?”

            “ _Galaxy Quest_!” Peter and Tony answered at the same time.

            “Is it…like Space Trek?”

            “ _Star_ Trek, Steve. _Star_ Trek. You’ve been in the twenty-first century six years, you no longer have any _excuse_ , old man,” Tony said.

            “Shush! It’s starting!” Peter said, throwing popcorn at both of them.

            They promptly hushed, but kept bickering all through the movie. That was ok. Peter liked throwing popcorn at them. When the movie was over, Peter was all set to go home to Aunt May. He’d take a shortcut via the Web Express. He had his backpack all set and ready and was just about to put on his mask, thanking his lucky stars that none of this had gotten awkward, when Tony called out.

            “Wait a second, Peter,” Tony said. Peter cringed internally. Uh-oh. Here came the _discussion_. Here came an awkward talk. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was tensing for, but he was certainly tense until his father wrapped his arms around him in a brief, warm hug.

            “Swing home safe, son,” Tony said, then clapped him on the back and let him go.

            Peter smiled.


End file.
